


What Binds Us (Part3- The Spring)

by dandelionpower



Series: Seasons in the North Hills [4]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Men in Kilts, Minor Characters Death, Multi, Romance, Slow Burn, They are Both Humans, imaginary universe inspired by the Scottish Highlands, yes marriage can be a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 01:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 109,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10866234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionpower/pseuds/dandelionpower
Summary: Lord Mitchell and his husband set sail to Aklànd (Anders’ homeland), in hope to build an army and defend the North Hills against the Norse invaders. John is recovering from his recent surgery and Anders carries a heavy secret. John is still unaware that during the winter, he has lost everything: his title as the leader of the federated clans, his castle and his lands. Conscious he’s treading a dangerous path, Anders hides the truth for fear it’s going to change everything between them.





	1. A Storm to Weather

**Author's Note:**

> yup. I'm alive and kicking. Welcome onboard for this 3rd "season" of WBU! I hope that many of your will stay tuned for the updates. I'm excited to share this with you once again, and I hope to deliver something good. 
> 
> Thanks once more to the wonderful Katyushha for her help and advices.  
> The immensely talented Dragon4488 will probably be adding illustrations to the chapters. The drawings are going to be uploaded into the chapters after the publication.

 

Waves slammed the stern of the ship like the hands of as many crying children on a locked door.

Hidden on the deck, in the narrow space between two beer barrels, Anders wept in silence. He feared to be discovered, especially by his step-mother, who, he knew too well, would be searching for him soon enough. Speaking of the wolf, he could already hear her voice from his hiding place. “Where is he? Where is your son?” she pestered Lord Johnson. The shrilled aggressiveness was enough to make Anders flinch.  

“Which one?” Johan inquired, already disinterested in what she had to say.

“Anders,” Lady Johnson specified, like his name was the one of some incurable affliction.

“I don’t know. The ship is not that big. You’ll find him at some point. He is probably hidden somewhere, crying like a little girl.”

Anders sniffled. He wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his sleeve. He hated the fact his father was right about him. The sound of the argument faded as the adults walked away on the deck.

“What are you doing there?”

The voice startled Anders and his heart made a leap in his chest. Sir Mikkel was looking down at his thirteen year old brother crammed between the barrels with a look hesitating between surprise and annoyance.

“Nothing,” Anders defended himself. He hastened to erase the last evidences of tears from his cheeks.  

“You’re crying.”

“No!” Anders protested.

Mikkel didn’t have to be very perceptive to notice his red eyes and runny nose. “Lady Elizabet is searching for you,” he informed him.

“I know,” Anders said, setting his jaw in a way he hoped made him look defiant and careless. “Are you going to rat me out?” he then asked, his voice trembling a little.

‘I won’t, if you tell me what is eating you.” With Mike, there were always conditions.

Anders abstained from answering.

With a deep sigh, the eldest heir held his hand out for his brother. The younger boy knew he couldn’t hide there forever so he grabbed the offered hand and let Mike help him back on his feet.  

“You don’t want to go to Brastàl, is that it?” Mike questioned. “I went there two or three times. It’s not as dull and cold as what we hear in Aklànd, you know.”

Anders shook his head. “It’s not that. You can’t understand.”

“Is it because of the engagement? You’re not getting married just now. Not for years, actually,” Mike pointed out. “All you have to do is to hold his hand while Father and Lord Mitchell give a speech. Then, they’ll sign a piece of paper and it’s over.”

Anders shivered. He didn’t want to get to know John Mitchell, let alone be forced to hold his hand.  But sometimes, curiosity was even stronger than reluctance. “What is he like, my _fiancé_?”  The word alone tasted like fish oil medicine on his tongue: something disgusting he was forced to swallow, presumably for his own good.

“He looks and acts like Ty a bit,” Mikkel provided. “They are of the same age.”

Anders imagined himself being engaged to a copy of his little brother and it felt strange and wrong in so many ways.

“Anders!,” Lady Johnson hailed him as she rushed over like a charging bull. “Where on earth were you? Oh look! You managed to get your clothes all dirty! I can’t leave you alone for more than two minutes, can I?” she scolded, dusting the back of his coat. “When are you finally going to start acting your age?”

Anders stood still and endured.

She ran her hand through his hair, but it was not an affectionate gesture. “It’s not long enough to braid,” she complained, tugging on it. “Maybe I should have dyed it. Lady MacGregor told me about a good mixture to darken hair.”

Johan took upon himself to calm his wife down. “James’ son is still a wee _bairn_. Nobody expects Anders to seduce him. We’re merely there to seal the engagement. The Mitchell boy doesn’t really have a thing to say in the matter anyway, if he even understands yet what an engagement means.”

But Anders was old enough to know what it implied. One day, he would have to leave everything he knew to go to Brastàl and live there with that other boy who would then be a man, but still a stranger. He would have to sleep in his bed and let him touch him under his kilt.

“But what are the Mitchells going to think of us if Anders isn’t presentable?” Elizabet complained.

“Quit fussing, woman,” Lord Johnson ordered. “This engagement is bound to happen. Lord Mitchell gave his word and he is not a man to betray it.”

Anders’ shoulders sagged under the weight of the destiny he could not avoid. If there weren’t so many stares on him right now, he would have probably burst into tears again.

***

 

_Eighteen years later…_

 

The autumn fog over the river was opaque and not a single breeze dared trouble it. Wavelets licked the hull of the ship without conviction, like a prostitute kissing a client. Anders had been playing with a twig of willow tree for the past hours, twirling it around his fingers. He was so deep in thoughts he did not hear his brother approach on the deck. He only noticed him when the pale young man spoke up.  “What’s the matter?” Sir Tyrone inquired, leaning forward on the gunwale at the blond man’s side.

Anders cracked the twig, splitting it in two sections. He dropped one into the water and watched it being carried away by the current. “What makes you think there’s one?”

Ty frowned. The fact his brother answered with a question just proved something was off.  “You’ve barely said a word since we left Aklànd. It’s not like you. It’s been four days, and you seem to get even quieter as we go.”  

“You noticed,” Anders simply said, not letting any emotion trouble the oily waters of his eyes.

“I did notice,” Ty confirmed. “So that’s why I’m asking: what is the matter with you?”

Another voice rose from behind them. “I must say, I’m also curious to hear the answer to that question,” Lord Mikkel cut in, joining his younger brothers by the gunwale.   

Anders heaved a sigh and pinched his lips like he did every time he was irritated. “Genius,” he snorted. “Let’s turn this into a family intervention. What do you want anyway? Want me to speak of my feelings?” He spat the last word out with disgust.  

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “If it can make you stop acting like a prick, then yes: I’ll make you speak about your godsdamn _feelings_ ,” he stated, mimicking Anders’ disdainful tone.  

Anders made an annoyed gesture, like chasing a fly. “If anybody cared about my feelings at all, I would not be on my way to marry John Mitchell,” he groaned under his breath.

Mikkel threw his hands up in a theatrical and mocking manner. “Oh, finally, the cat is out of the bag!”

“I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you imagine,” Tyrone tried to reassure Anders. “From what I’ve heard, the new Lord Mitchell is a good man.”

“Yes, and with manners, contrary to you,” Mikkel added.

Anders glared at his elder brother for only reply and then opted for a sulky silence.  

“Are you afraid he will not like you?” Tyrone inquired.

The blond man chuckled, but no humor lit his eyes. “I rather hope he won’t.”

“Why?”

“It’ll be easier for me if I don’t have to fight  off his advances during the wedding night,” Anders stated.

“If it’s not the case and he decides that he likes you, you’re going to have to run fast, because he is quite an athletic man,” Mike teased him.  

Anders scrunched up his nose. It seemed like his future husband had all the qualities of a true gentleman, but nobody was perfect and he suspected he would soon get to discover Mitchell’s hidden flaws.

Ty had not abandoned just yet. “But, wouldn’t it be easier if you took a liking to each other?”  

This time, Anders smiled for real, but his voice was mocking when he said: “Oh, Ty! Always the helplessly romantic one! Maybe when you see the fair Lord Mitchell, you’ll be the one taking a shine to him. As far as I’m concerned, he can be all yours.”

Mike felt the need to step in again. “Except that it won’t happen, since it’s your name, Anders, that is on the engagement contract, whether you like it or not.”

“As you have so charmingly reminded me a hundred times already,” Anders grunted.  

“I feel like you are already sabotaging all your chances at happiness,” Ty remarked. “Maybe he’ll surprise you. Maybe you can grow fond of him. Why don’t you give it a try?”  

“Anders doesn’t have the choice to give it more than just a try. A matrimonial alliance is not something that can be broken just like that. Don’t put fanciful ideas in your brother’s head, Ty,” Mikkel admonished. “Marriage doesn’t have anything to do with love: it’s a duty he owes to his clan, and the sooner he accepts it, the better it will be for everybody involved.”

One thing Anders hated above all was when people spoke of him like he was not present. And moreover, having Mikkel play dad was definitely on the list of situations that made him want to punch things. “Oi! Will you two cut me some slack? How can you act like you are suddenly the experts, anyways? None of you are married, as far as I know.”

Ty shrugged, ready to concede that Anders might have a point there.

“I simply didn’t find the right match for myself yet,” Mike defended himself.  

“You were Father’s favorite - that’s why he didn’t force you into an early engagement like he did me,” Anders argued, pointing his index finger at the lord. “And you,” he went on, poking Ty’s chest with the same digit, “You are over the moon to come to Brastàl with us because you know you’re going to see your sweet little Lady Dawn. So if I want to sulk, that’s my own business, not yours.”  

“Fine, but you better not make these wedding plans fall over board, Anders Johnson,” Mikkel said, not making any effort to conceal the threat in his voice. “We need this alliance.” He lowered his voice to add: “and we need this money. You know that our clan is not as rich as it used to be.”

One of the sail men called him and Anders unclenched his teeth with relief when his elder brother left.  “He’s not going to cut me any slack, is he?” he despaired.

“I’m afraid not,” Ty sympathized. “I’m sorry, Anders.”

“That’s fine,” the first heir said, his mind already elsewhere.

They both stayed silent, side by side. Anders threw the remains of the twig into the river and his eyes followed its course through the floating autumn leaves. He tried to avoid thinking about the life waiting for him in Brastàl. But trying to avoid those thoughts was like trying not to breathe. There was this tight knot in his guts when he thought of the premarital trials. He was a decent hunter and knew how to use a spear or throw a javelin, but those were the only weapons he could use with any efficiency. He was a good rider, but he was not a fast runner or especially strong. At least, if he died during the trials, that would spare him from the wedding night. Somehow, that was not a comforting thought either.

Anders threw a side glance in his brother’s direction and saw that the young man was daydreaming, a small smile floating on his lips.

“I know that look,” Anders said. “You’re thinking about Dawn.”

“It’s been a year since I last saw her,” Ty breathed.

“I don’t want to rain on your parade, but if I were you, I would not get too starry-eyed,” Anders warned him. “Mike wants to marry you off to Padraig.”

Ty’s jaw dropped. “What!?”

“Yes, Padraig Keir, Dawn’s twin brother. How would you like it: become her brother-in-law instead of her beloved husband?”

The second Johnson heir had gone even paler that he already was. “Mike can’t do that!” he protested.

“Just watch him.”

“Death spirit!” Ty cursed.

“Don’t worry, brother mine. I won’t let that happen,” Anders soothed, patting the younger man on the shoulder. “If marrying John Mitchell gives me at least one advantage, it will be to gain some influence. I got enchained against my will, but if I can make sure it won’t happen to you as well, then I will. It might not seem that way, but I’m a romantic too. You’ll marry your lass, brother, and you’ll get to please her every night with that unfeasibly large organ of yours.”

Tyrone sniggered. “Oh yes indeed, you have such a great sense of romance!” He patted Anders on the back as well and left him alone with his thoughts in order to join Axl and Olaf who shared a drink at the other side of the ship.

As it started to drizzle wind rose, lifting the fog and Anders lost himself in the contemplation of the hilly landscape along the Quigley River.

He was not the first one in Clan Johnson to have to face an arranged marriage, and probably not the last either. After all, Anders’ own father had gotten married twice for political reasons. Ironically enough, of the three wives he had had in his life, the only one Johan Johnson had wedded out of passion was Anders’ mother. Had Lady Astreed ever loved him back? Most stories Anders heard over the years led him to believe that she was more resigned than enthralled by the prospect of marrying Johan. Some even pretended that, because of the language barrier, she didn’t even know what was going on during the ceremony. Anders doubted it. She must have known, but she was ready to play the game to secure a safe future for her child.

He wondered now if his mother had loved his father: not Johan, but the man who had gotten her pregnant. Perhaps Anders was conceived in violence and disgust, not unlike what was waiting for him in Lord Mitchell’s bed.

He already envisioned it: the massive, ungentle hands of his warrior brute of a fiancé, grabbing his legs and forcing them apart. His voice slurry and heavy with wine, telling him to stay still and quiet until the deed was done. He was convinced Mitchell would fuck him like a farmer slaughtered his pigs: with haste and greediness. Anders planned on shaving his head in protest just before the wedding: be ugly, be impolite and unmannerly, be the exact opposite of everything his step-mother had groomed him to be. Maybe there resided his only salvation.

 

***

 

 

The tide hit the row of the _White Rose_ with the force of a battle ram. The wind snuffed out the foam from the surf as soon as it formed on the wave peaks. Standing at the stern, Anders watched anvil-shaped clouds loom in from the horizon. In the fourth days of travel since the former Great Consort and his spouse left Rosecliff, it was the first that the sea was so agitated. If Rea, Vàt and Yeg were on Anders’ side, the storm would bypass them and carry on to the south: the wind would calm, the ocean settle and their travel remain undisturbed until they’d set foot in the port of Aklànd. However, Anders doubted the spirits were inclined to give their blessing to someone rumored to be the vessel of an enemy god.  

Despite the ominous cloud formation, Anders wasn’t too concerned. He had lived on these coasts long enough to know the ocean’s changing moods. Windstorms were not uncommon at the beginning of spring and he remained confident that Dugald, the gruff captain of the _White Rose_ , had seen worse weather conditions and was competent enough to bring them to their destination. Anders had come to appreciate the seafarer’s discretion and his down-to-earth attitude.

From his position at the helm, Dugald, just like Anders, was busy scrutinizing the ocean with a frown on his wrinkled face. He shook his head and his lips moved, but the wind was too strong for Anders to hear. The man was perpetually grumbling curses in his beard, and Anders couldn’t help but imagine how many of them were still trapped there, like fish in a net.

Wrapped in a thick blanket and curled up against the mast, Zeb had his nose in a book. The sea spray had started wrinkling the pages. The young healer lifted his eyes from the book now and then to throw a dark glare in his direction, but Anders made a point of ignoring the scowls aimed at him. The boy could sulk all he wanted. He was paid to do a job and Anders would not apologize for requiring it to be done. If Zeb expected the trip to Aklànd to be a pleasure boat cruise, he had embarked in the wrong journey.

Besides, Anders had too much on his mind to pay attention to the teenager’s moods. He could feel what was hidden in the inner pocket of his coat. The pile of paper burned a hole in his chest. He made sure no one on the ship deck was looking his way before he pulled the evidence of his misdeed out of his coat.

Anders stared down at the pile of letters, gripping it so tight his fingers got sore. The clumsy handwriting indicated that they were destined to people of Brastàl castle. The wax seals meant to protect the privacy of the messages were broken.  

On the previous day, the _White Rose_ had taken a stopover on the docks of Pine Port for the whole morning in order to allow Dugald to purchase supplies for the rest of their travel. John had taken this opportunity to write letters to his family and friends. Anders had offered his help but John insisted on writing them by himself. Not having his good hand to hold the feather pen anymore, it had been a long and frustrating process. The Mitchells were not known for their indulgence toward themselves. He still managed to fill a whole page for each of the recipients. Too weak to go to town and find a courier himself, John had entrusted the letters to Zeb. But before the healer could leave, Anders had intercepted the letters and ordered the young man to keep his mouth shut.

John thought the letters were on their way to his homeland, but they had never left the ship. At first, Anders planned on destroying them. It was the surest way to ensure that his husband would not find out about them, but so far, Anders had been unable to do so. Instead, he had opened and read them in secret. The first one was for his mother-in-law.

John assured Lady Ann of his unswerving affection and also of his intention to come home as soon as the circumstances allowed him. He was eager to gather the few members of the Mitchell clan together again and he gave her some news of Anders. He shared with his mother the sadness of having caused the loss of so many good soldiers. He apologized for failing to be as good a leader as his late father was. That last part made Anders’ heart sink, because he knew how much John still suffered from his memories of Archerwall’s battlefield. John also enjoined his mother to have the secret passage to the water well blocked or destroyed since Herrick now knew of its existence and could well use it to invade Brastàl.  

The second letter was for George. John informed his best friend of his plan to bring reinforcement to Brastàl and organize an offensive against the Norse people. He also asked the chief of his garrison about Lord Duncan’s movements and intentions and demanded to be kept informed by letters to Aklànd.

The third message was meant for Annie. He forgave her for her disobedience regarding Axl. He wished well to her and the baby to be born. He still expressed his concern for the outcome of the matrimonial alliances decided before his election, knowing the fact she carried a child with Johnson blood could compromise them. He asked her to be careful on who she chose to tell about the father’s identity.

The last letter was for Carl Allen. Anders had read this one with particular attention. Carl had been John’s very first lover and it was plain to see that they still cared for each other. While Anders refused to admit this past relationship made him insecure, he dreaded to see some lingering desire show through John’s words. He was reassured to find the tone of the letter to be pragmatic rather than intimate. John informed Carl about the alliance between the Norsemen and the Nomads. He stressed the peril these people represented for the Mitchells’ land. Despite the immediate threat, at the end of his letter, John told Carl that he was free to go back to Eelry and to his husband if this was his wish.  

Anders deemed it too dangerous if he allowed John to send missives to Brastàl. The information they contained was sensible and Duncan was controlling the lands. He figured out it would be safer for them if Duncan was kept in the dark on whether the former Great Lord and his consort were alive or dead. John still ignored that Robert Duncan was sitting on his throne, in his halls, with his torc around his neck. So far Anders had failed to notify him of that slight detail. If he had had the guts to tell him, he wouldn’t have had to steal the missives, and, moreover, have to watch John struggle writing letters that his loved ones would never read.

Once more, Anders caught Zeb glowering in his direction. He suspected that going behind his husband’s back had lost him some of the healer’s respect. Anders cared very little for Zeb’s opinion, or so he told himself. People always expected Anders to behave in a certain way: according to his rank and duties. More often than not, he did the exact contrary. Being a disappointment was something he almost expected.

Anders had always lived with the firm belief that every decision he made was the best one. If people around him could not see it, it was their own fault. Eventually, they would understand he had been right all along. He was not one to stoop and apologize for his actions. He adopted the same conviction when it came to his current situation. John was alive, thanks to him. It was certainly not someone like his over-righteous brother Mikkel who would have pulled off a rescue mission like this one. Mike wanted him to stay put and play Lord Regent. But Anders had taken the best decision by leaving Brastàl. Nothing was reproachable about his conduct. He had nothing to regret. He repeated this in his head so many times days and nights that it started to sound an awful lot like guilt.

The waves were so colossal now that some of them crashed on the hull with enough force to curl over the gunwale and splash down on the deck. Anders was spared, but a few drops fell on the pile of the letters, smearing the ink of the “t” and “s” of “Brastàl”. Even now, he was tempted to drop the letters in the ocean, but he knew it would only dissolve the ink and not the fault.

A seagull hovered over the ship, fighting against the flurry to keep gliding wings. The bird went down and landed in the trough between two wave crests. It shook its ruffled feathers back in order and folded its wings neatly on its back. The wind roared, more virulent than before. The sails flapped from the gale. Dugald called for help. Anders stashed the letters back into his coat. Zeb on his heels, he hurried to lower the sails before the wind could tear them up.

Even without the sails, the water current gave the ship enough speed for it to cut through the waves like a sharp knife. The sun was already low in the sky and the view at port side a thick curtain of rain. At starboard, the coast opposed a fortress of black cliffs to the ocean below. The North Hillers called this part of the country “Kilt Rock”. With its vertical basalt columns, the rock face resembled the pleats at the back of a kilt. It marked the border between the Keir lands and the territory belonging to the Johnsons. It made Anders realize just how close they were to Aklànd now. If the spirits allowed it, they could be there in less than a day and a half. He could still pray for an improvement of the weather.

Feeling their destination so near, Anders caught himself thinking of his homeland. The spring celebrations had not reached their end yet. People in Aklànd were most likely still busy drinking, dancing, playing caber toss and stuffing their faces with threads of sweet herbs bread. He envied them. War had sculpted a new man out of him: killed the last remains of the scared boy he used to be, but Anders missed being carefree. He missed that phase of liberty he had gotten between his refusal of his step-mother’s dictatorship and his marriage. He wanted to drink. He wanted to dance and sweat the alcohol out, only to be allowed to drink some more. He wanted to joke and laugh, a glass of fine whiskey in his hand and John perched on his lap like a festival girl, his kilt a bit too high on his thighs to be decent.

He even missed his younger brothers and his cousin: something he never thought possible. He was happy to go back to Aklànd, but there was also an uncomfortable kind of trepidation at the pit of his stomach. Once they’d be at destination, there wouldn’t be any way to hide the truth from John. He knew the first thing his brothers would want when they’d see their liege reappear would be to discuss the current political state of the country. Josie had warned Anders about it before they left the surgery school: “ _he’ll feel betrayed if he learns it from someone else._ ” Anders, as he claimed back then, was waiting for the right moment to tell John, and that moment had yet to come.

Anders walked to the hatch and descended below, through the narrow ladder leading to the steerage deck. It was more a storeroom than real living quarters and it reeked of mildew. The White Rose was the most inappropriate name for such a stinking boat.

When the passengers were awake, they preferred to be exposed to the wind gusts and the spray than stay there with the moist darkness and the stench. John, however, was too weak most of the time to join the others outside and he stayed in his hammock. Not wanting his other half to feel too lonely, Anders shared his time between the lower and the upper deck.

Once down the ladder, he made his way through the obstruction of barrels, boxes and the rest of the cargo to the hammocks. It was without surprise that he found John asleep and immobile, except from the heaving of his chest and the shift of his eyes under his eyelids. He was dreaming. At least this is how Anders interpreted it. Tiolam was sprawled across his chest like a fancy fur collar.                

The pet fox had taken a strong dislike to sailing as soon as she realized there was no way out of the ship unless she swam. Just like Zeb, she chose to pin all her problems on Anders. During the day, she ignored her owner in order to keep company to John, and at night, she took revenge by hunting down the rats on the ship, making tremendous racket.

Today, the vixen seemed to be in a forgiving mood. She batted lashes at Anders and pushed her head gently against the palm of his hand when he reached to pet her. Then, she nestled her head in the crook of John’s neck and heaved a sigh.

Anders felt a strong rush of fondness for the two creatures resting in that hammock. If he had analyzed the situation further, he would probably have found pathetic the fact that his only true friends were his pet and his husband, but, at that moment, it was not the way he saw things.

To say that his relationship with the man he had been forced to marry changed in the course of half a year was an understatement. If his marriage had gone the way Anders expected it six moons before, the couple should have been living in cordial hostility at best. But John had courted and earned every inch of him, tearing down the wall of his reluctance, brick by brick. He proved to Anders he was loved and wanted, and Anders had surprised himself by returning those feelings in full. Never in a million years had he expected to fall for his own husband, let alone fall this hard. He had to give some credit to Tyrone for his foreseeing.

Anders buried one hand in fox fur and the other one went playing with the dark curls of John’s hair. With an unpleasant pinch to his heart, Anders noticed how pale and sweaty his lover’s skin looked.

Perhaps it was due to his journey at sea whilst in his mother’s womb, but Anders never felt any discomfort from the incessant sway of a ship. John, on the other side, having been raised inland, could never find his sea legs, even after nearly a week on the White Rose. He showed the signs of severe seasickness, much to Anders’ concern. The amputation had left him quite weakened already and his current condition threatened to jeopardize his recovery. Zeb observed that his healing had stalled. He was not getting worse, but he was not getting better either.

John being in a precarious state of health was one of the reasons why Anders decided to postpone the moment when he’d tell him the truth about the fate of Brastàl castle and the Mitchell lands. Or perhaps, it was nothing but an excuse he gave himself to justify why he could not muster the courage to make that confession. Every time he was on the verge to spill the truth at last, John seemed too sick or vulnerable to handle it, so he retreated. He was so deep in lies now he was no better than a cow stuck in a mud hole. Only the tip of his nose stuck out: barely enough to breathe.

He was not the only one, Anders noticed as he watched over his sleeping husband, to use his clothes to hide something that filled him with shame. In his case, it was the stolen letters. In John’s, it was his amputated arm that he kept inside his coat or his pocket. John jerked away every time his spouse did as little as approach this side of his body. The only one allowed to see his stump was Zeb, when he changed his bandages. John’s handicap was a sensible subject and Anders had learnt not to bring it up.

Seeing that his Lord was asleep somewhat comfortably despite his state, Anders figured out that he was not needed at the moment. He had not made four steps away when he heard a rough, confused voice say his name.

“Anders?”

At once, he was back at his partner’s side. Hazel eyes blinked at him.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Anders apologized.  

“It’s alright.”  

“How are you feeling?”

John pulled a face. “I can’t tell anymore if it’s the boat moving or just the dizziness that makes my head spin so badly.”

“Well, it’s not only an impression,” Anders confirmed. “The swell is especially strong today.” As if to add weight to his words, the ship swayed and yawed, making the cargo shift.  A bottle fell from a box, but instead of breaking, it rolled on the floor until a barrel stopped its course.

Anders placed his hand upon John’s cheek to check his temperature. It was compulsory. Despite the success of the surgery, he could not get rid of the fear that a nasty fever would seize his husband again. He would sometimes wake several times a night to touch John. This had become part of his sleeping schedule. It reassured him, and it calmed John as well.

The dark-haired man leant in the touch with a small, content sigh, not unlike Tiolam just moments earlier. “Your skin is cold,” he remarked.

“Yes. It’s windy outside.”

“Stay with me a little. It’s warmer in here.”  He turned his head slightly and kissed the tattoo on the inside of Anders’ wrist. He often did that since the loss of his own wedding mark, as if he hoped this simple gesture would preserve their bond. “If only I could keep you warm: the whole of you.”

Anders already felt warmer just from imagining the possibilities this suggestion entailed. Longing stirred low and deep inside him. “Soon.”   

“Yes, soon,” John echoed. He closed his eyes.

Anders traced the angle of his jawline with his thumb. The bruises and lacerations from Herrick’s torture were almost healed. There were still some lines and shadows here and there, so Anders’ mapped his lord’s face with a lasting caution. John had seen the spirit of death face to face and vanquished it, but he would bear the marks of this combat for a long time, though the visible scars were not the ones that worried Anders the most. He knew that under the surface, some wounds remained. Anders regretted he was about to make them worse.

“There is something I wanted to tell you,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice from shaking. He knew too well that it would be the end of this comforting closeness. The relaxed jawline would tense, the hazel eyes grow dark and icy, and this was the best case scenario. The anger was one thing, the sadness and the suffering was another.

John seemed to have drifted back to a half-slumber state. It made Anders doubt his husband had heard what he just said.

“You know, I ordered a tapestry for our room before our wedding,” John began in thin voice. “It was before you even arrived in Brastàl. I had no notion of your tastes back then, so I asked for a hunt scene. It’s an important part of Aklànd’s traditions as I recall. They told me it would take half a year to weave it. I think we’ll have it delivered by the time we go back to Brastàl. I hope you’ll be pleased with the result.”

Anders swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Let’s not think about it just now, shall we?”

John opened his eyes and gave him a smile. “Taking my love home with me is the only thing I can think about.”  

At those words; the hope and the love behind them, Anders felt the little courage he had built up deflate instantly. “That’s a good thing you generate such sap all by yourself” he retorted. “This boat won’t need hot pitch to seal it.” In situations of extreme discomfort, snarky repartees were always what came out of him first.

John was still smiling. “One of us has to keep it afloat.”

“Rest now,” Anders ordered, “and if you get nauseous again, remember to aim for the bucket this time. You should have seen Zeb’s face when I told him it was part of his duty as your healer to clean after you. The boy was not happy.” He moved to leave again, but John held him back.

“Anders? I’m sorry, my mind is foggy. Wasn’t there something you wished to tell me?”

“Never mind, maiseach. We can speak about it later.” He bent down and placed a kiss to his forehead. He had done it again. Just like a timid hunter, Anders had turned on his heels and went back home before even passing the edge of the woods. But while he kept on avoiding the forest, the wolves inside grew bigger and scarier.

Anders wasn’t proud of himself. He cursed the missed opportunity and took the ladder to go back to the upper deck. The blasting wind threw the hatch open with all the violence of its fury. He realized no amount of prayers to the spirits would make them avoid the storm now, if the low clouds and squalls of driving rain were any indications.

Dugald had lost his tam hat and the cold had reddened the tip of his large nose. “We have to find an anchorage, sir,” he pressed Anders as soon as the nobleman joined him at the helm, “or else, the storm is going to throw us on those reefs.” He pointed at sharp rocks peeking out from the chaos of waves further along the coast.  Anders had hoped they could avoid making another stop before reaching Aklànd, but he had to admit the storm had gotten worse than he expected.

“We’re not far from Faoileag Cove,” he observed. “Do you think you can get us there using the current?”  

“I can try.”

“Try, then.”

A dent in the impressive facade of kilt rock sheltered the fishing village of Faoileag. Anders knew this small bight like the back of his hand since the Johnson clan owned a secondary residence a mile north of the village.

Standing at his side, Zeb looked like he was on the verge of throwing up. The ship rolled and he lost balance, but Anders caught him by the plaid of his kilt.  “Go to my husband,” he ordered. Wind howled in his ears and he had to rise his voice to make himself heard. “Make sure he’s ready to leave the ship if we have to.”

The healer nodded, all desires for rebellion forgotten. He staggered to the hatch and disappeared below deck.

It was a tedious task to navigate without the sails and in such a tempest. Rain was whipping Anders and the captain in the face and reduced the visibility to a minimum. If there were reefs on their path, they’d see them at the very last moment.

Anders stood at the very edge of the row, tried to spot the obstacles and shouted directions to Dugald. An enormous wave climbed along the hull and hit Anders, leaving him soaked to the skin. An even bigger wave crashed on the deck, followed by two others and Anders turned around long enough to see the water drain down by the hatch. With water in the hull, the ship would get heavier and even more likely to collide with the reefs.

They were getting closer to the cove, and, though the rain and the saltwater dripped from his hair, Anders could vaguely distinguish the shape of docks, houses and buildings in the distance. “I see it! I see the village!!” he yelled. Just as he said that, the ship surged and pitched. There was a loud cracking sound at the stern.

Anders’ heart made a leap. The ship had hit something, without a doubt.  His husband was still below deck. If the leak was big, the hull would fill with water in less than a minute.

“It’s the rudder!” Dugald shouted. “It got torn off! I’m not able to drive the ship anymore!”

The cold and the weight of his wet clothes slowed every of Anders’ movements and it only participated in increasing his sudden panic. By the time Anders got to him, Dugald had thrown the anchor overboard.

“There are not many options, sir,” the seafarer said. “Either we stay here and wait to see whether this old wood plank sinks or not, or we take the boat and try our luck to reach the beach.”

“The boat!” Anders decided. After the cracking noise he’s heard, he doubted the White Rose would survive the night. It was almost dark already. They had to use the last lights of the day to find their way to the shore through the maze of reefs.

He did not waste a second, hurried to the hatch and gasped with relief when he saw that John was already climbing the ladder. Anders grabbed his left arm and pulled him out. He let Zeb extirpate himself alone.

Anders brushed the dark, wild curls out of John’s face without gentleness in order to get a good look at his face. He was ashen, greenish even. “You’re good?” Anders worried.

“We had water mid-boot down there,” John said for only reply.

“I know, that’s why we have to leave by boat. You think you can handle that?”

In fact, John had little choice but to say yes. “I’ll be fine.”

Zeb and Dugald pulled the small rowing boat to the gunwale. Anders went over to help them. They had to pull it overboard and lower it carefully. The boat was heavier than it looked, and three pairs of arms were barely enough to support the weight.

A sudden realization hit Anders like another splash of icy water. “Tiolam!!!” he exclaimed, shooting a look at John. “Where is she!?”

John was holding his injured arm close to his chest and fought nausea the best he could. “I don’t know. She took off before I could catch her and she went hiding somewhere in the steerage.”

“Shit,” Anders cursed. He could not let go of the rope and go in search of her.

“I vowed not to leave your side when danger arises,” John said, “so I can’t look for her, unless you give me the permission.”

It put Anders in a true dilemma. He could not let his fox drown, but sending John below deck was also a bad idea. He battled with his conscience for long seconds. “Fine, go! But if you don’t find her in less than four minutes, you come back, understood?”

“Yes,” John agreed.

The rowing boat had nearly reached the waterline now. Anders set his jaw to keep the fear to a minimum when John took the ladder and he lost sight of him.

The ship had a sudden motion and it threatened to crush the small boat that the three men attempted to secure and moored to it. One of the rigging ropes on the mast snapped and came flogging Anders on the back. The shock threw him on his knees with a groan of pain. He was still on his knees wondering what had just happened to him, when Dugald grabbed his shoulder. “We have to leave the ship, now!”

Anders shook his head and pulled himself back on his feet. “No. Not without him.”

“Anders!”

Muffled by the wind and the crashing of waves, the cry for help still ringed in his ears clear as day. He hurried to the hatch and when he opened it, he realized that the shifting cargo had broken the ladder. John was trapped down there. His spouse looked up at him, water to the waist and a squirming fox squeezed under his left arm.

“Give her to me! Give her to me!!” Anders ordered, reaching down to take Tiolam. John held her out and Anders grabbed the fox by the scruff of her neck. Once he had pulled her out, he shoved her in Zeb’s arms. “Wrap her tight in the plaid of your kilt, or she is going to scratch and bite,” he warned the healer.

“I’m going to get you out of there,” Anders assured John, in an attempt to steady his own trembling hands. “Do you think you can push some boxes over here and stand on them?” John was heavier than him. His only chance to be able to pull his husband out was to grab him under both arms with Dugald’s help.

“I can try…” John said, taking a look around. It would be a difficult task to gather those boxes with only one hand. Most were underwater, the others were floating around.

“No. You are going to do more than try,” Anders ordered. The water level was rising and it was cold enough to kill a man from exposure.

John vanished for a minute, when he reappeared, he was struggling in the water to push a heavy barrel using his back and shoulders. “Good, that’s good,” Anders encouraged and John positioned the barrel. “Now climb atop.”

John executed the order clumsily, and Anders’ hands stopped shaking and found a strong grip again when he could grasp his husband by the armpits. Dugald reached down for him as well. The former Great Lord might have lost some weight due to the sickness, he was still heavy and the two men grunted from the effort as they hoisted him back to the light of day.

Anders slung John’s good arm around his neck, carried him starboard and helped him down the rope ladder to the boat where Zeb was already waiting for them with a very displeased Tiolam swaddled in his plaid. Dugald joined them and hurried to untie the mooring ropes before pushing the craft away from the ship.  

The raging tide hustled boat and its passengers. As he helped manoeuvre it with one of the rows, Anders threw a glance at his spouse. John was shivering, blanketed in the folds of his kilt. If they capsized, would he be able to swim? He had never been a very good swimmer, even back when he still had his two arms intact. Anders wasn’t sure he wanted to dive and pick him up at the bottom of the sea.

Two hundred yards of treacherous waters separated them from the beach. Anders forced himself to stay vigilant for the reeks and rocks.

With every yard they managed to subtract from the count, Anders felt his hope rekindle. When the boat finally came ashore and he could hear the pebbles roll under the hull, he allowed himself to breathe normally again.  

The intensity of the downpour had not abated in the slightest. The survivors were soaked wet with rain and salt water. In the dark, they dragged the boat up the beach to a wood post where they tied it. They could not see much of their surroundings, except the faint lights that filtered through the shutters of the fishermen cottages.

Anders took Tiolam back from Zeb and, ignoring her screeching protests, tucked her under his coat. “There is an inn in town, just the other side of the docks,” he told the others. “We’ll seek refuge there.” Now that they were out of immediate danger, he could feel the cold and exhaustion with piercing accuracy. He mourned the loss of his woolen cloak that had stayed on board.

 

***

With its low ceilings and narrow windows, Faoileag’s inn could be described as small and rustic by the most polite. The guests who chose to stay there couldn’t expect more than the bare minimum, but Anders’ standards when it came to his choice of accommodations had significantly lowered of late. A roof and a mattress was all he asked for; he could even do with bed bugs if he had to.   

The inn was deserted. The warden sighed when the four men entered the room, water dripping from their clothes and onto the floor he had just washed. Anders slipped a few silver pieces into Zeb’s sporran and left him to negotiate the price of the rooms as he led John upstairs.  He did not want to stay under the warden’s scrutiny too long and give him the opportunity to recognize the Great Lord and his consort under their unintentional disguise as shipwrecked sailors.

The rooms were unlocked and Anders chose the first one that had twin beds in it.

As soon as they had closed the door behind them, Tiolam wiggled out of Anders’ grip and rushed under a chest of drawers. He knew she would lurk in the shadows there until the morning. After what she had endured, he could not blame her. He wished he could do the same and hide under a piece of furniture, only to come out when the war would be over.

Unable to control the shakiness in his frozen limbs, he groped for the flint and stone on the mantelpiece and gathered kindling wood in the hearth. “I’m going to make fire,” he told John, just for the sake of it.  He did not expect an answer and wasn’t surprised when he got none. The dark-haired man was silent since he’d been rescued from the steering deck. Anders suspected speaking was an unwelcomed loss of energy for him at the moment.

When the warmth of the fire started spreading in the room, Anders’ fingers itched and hurt as the blood returned to them. He took off his boots and emptied them from the sea water into the chamber pot.

The only seats available in the room besides the beds were three wood stools. John was on one of them, staring at the floor with a blank expression. He jumped when Anders touched him, as if he had forgotten he was in the room.

“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

John nodded. He let Anders strip him from his boots, his coat, and from his shirt that stuck to the skin of his back. Springy curls of hair fell in front of the brown eyes, making him look like a sheepish little boy who had disobeyed his parents and went playing outside in the puddles during a thunderstorm.

Anders took a woolen blanket from one of the beds and handed it to his partner. “Take your kilt off and wrap yourself in that.” Then, Anders turned away and proceeded to strip from his own drenched coat and shirt. Normally, he would have been happy to ogle his lawful husband’s fine body, but since the day John had refused his advances in the lumber shack, he walked on eggshells around the subject of sexual intimacy. Still averting his eyes, he outstretched a hand and took the kilt when John gave it over to him.

Using two of the stools to arrange a makeshift clothesline, he hung up the kilt in front of the fireplace. He was nearly done when John unexpectedly spoke up. “After our third marital trial, you left your kilt to dry on my chair and when I came back to the room to bring you dry clothes, you were already asleep in my bed,” he reminisced.

“Yes, I remember,” Anders said, smoothing the fabric so it would dry faster. It occupied him and made him forget that John was so near and so naked. “The fur blankets on your bed smelled like you.”

“And you liked it?”

“More than I wished to at the time.”  

The flames had their usual hypnotizing effect on Anders. He stared into them and dived back in memories. He felt starved, in the physical sense, to know his man was near and yet untouchable.

In the meantime, John had walked closer and he stood only four steps behind him. “You’re allowed to look at me, you know,” he breathed. His voice had taken a smooth and deep quality it didn’t have before.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

This time, Anders felt compelled to follow his desire.

John had draped his right shoulder in the blanket to conceal his arm, but the rest of his body was left uncovered. Ochre colored flickers of firelight licked the skin of his stomach, his chest, shoulder and neck. The pool of hair between his legs was a promise of warmth and silkiness. Anders’ tongue darted between his lips when his eyes finally fell on the beautiful sex that used to bring him to completion with such skill and art. It lay, relaxed and soft in the nest of dark curls, offered to his gaze. The vision was enough to set his heart aflutter. Anders ached to circle his lover’s navel with the tip of his thumb and then trace the treasure trail down to where his touch could make his lover feel good.

“Won’t you remove your own kilt?” John asked. Anders had nearly forgotten he was still wearing it.  He unbuckled his belt. The wool was so heavy it slipped from his hips at once and pooled around his ankles.

The brown eyes took their time to travel over his nude form and appraise it. “Would you like to come closer, so I can maybe… hold you?” There was some hesitation in John’s question and demeanour. He doubted his other half would accept the offer. The way he kept his amputated arm hidden from view gave Anders an idea of the reason why. The consort did not see why he should be deterred and was inclined to accept. More than that, in fact: he was eager to hold and be held. When his cool skin met John’s, they both took a sharp breath, but then relaxed.

John draped an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders and Anders circled his waist. “I’m sorry if that feels somewhat incomplete,” John apologized, referring to the fact he couldn’t put both arms around him anymore.  

In Anders’ fantasies, John still had two hands to touch, arouse and pleasure him. He’d be lying if he pretended the contrary. The embrace did feel incomplete in a way, but he knew better than to voice that thought. John didn’t need to be hurt more than he already was.  

John bent his head forward and rested his forehead on top of Anders’ shoulder.  “Urg. My head spins. It’s like I never left the ship. I can still feel the sway.”

An appeasing hand came stroking the back of his neck. “It’s normal that it takes some time for you to adjust,” Anders soothed.   

“Tell me we won’t have to get on a ship anymore.”

“No. We are not that far from Aklànd. We’ll spend the next few days at the Gull’s Nest, and then we’ll do the rest of the trip by horse.”

“Thank be to the spirits!” John breathed, relieved. “The Gull’s Nest is the Johnsons’ summer house if I remember well.”

“Yes,” Anders confirmed. “It’s empty at this time of the year, apart from Stuart, the old gardener.”

John trailed the tip of his nose along the line of Anders’ shoulder and placed kisses at the beginning and the end of the trail. Just the way he breathed over his skin was a way to remind Anders who he belonged to. “We have work to do: people to talk to, clans to gather, enemies to fight,” John said, “but I think I can use a few days of rest, as long as you promise you won’t let me leave your arms.”

The request, however one that should have filled Anders with want and passion, just reminded him in what a difficult position he was. As long as he did not tell John the truth, he was standing on the brink of betrayal. And if he told him the truth, he suspected it would be the end of this hard-gained closeness. Anders had not realized just how deeply he craved husbandly affection, like it could erase all the horrors of the winter. He did not want it to stop. He liked being adored and desired.  He knew too well that if John came to know the whole truth, and to learn about the part Anders had played in Duncan’s rise to power, that blessed honeymoon would be over.

As they had stayed silent for a little while, Anders risked a question: “Do you ever regret I came to save you from the nomad camp?”

John lifted his head, his lips abandoning Anders’ shoulder. “That was a reckless thing for you to do: to leave our castle and come looking for me. Many bad things could have happened in your absence… but with George and Carl in charge I’m not overly worried. They would never let anyone threaten Brastàl without putting up a fight. We have guards and good fortifications: better than Archerwall’s. My father made sure to keep the defense structures in good condition throughout his reign. He used to say that Brastàl’s walls were so thick and solid they could defend themselves without help. I would be sorry for any army trying to lay siege. ”       

If John wanted to take his castle back now, he’d be the one forced to besiege it, Anders realized with an imperceptible gulp. _“I le_ _ft_ _the wolf in charge of the sheep,”_ he thought. To appease his fear, he needed to hear from John’s mouth that he had done the right thing, even if his husband could not yet measure the true consequences of Anders’ actions. “But, do you _regret_ it?” he insisted.

“You gave me no reason to regret it so far,” his spouse replied, which was of no comfort to Anders whatsoever.

John didn’t have to be very intuitive to note the change in his lover’s composure. Seeing his unease, John reached for the ginger-blonde beard and scratched it tenderly. “I’m glad to be with you again, my fox, even though, during my captivity, I never dared hope for it.”

“Maybe you should stop calling me that,” Anders said, feeling an odd urge to escape John’s touch. “People hunt foxes.”

John had a small, tired smile. “It’s because they’re beautiful and misunderstood creatures. But you should not worry. I won’t let Herrick harm you.”

“ _It’s not Herrick I’m worried about at the moment,”_ Anders answered in mind. The matter of Herrick and the Norsemen should indeed preoccupy him. There was also the Scarecrow, this group of fanatics armed by Duncan who were convinced they’d sort the federation’s problems by cleansing the country from all sorcerers, beginning with him. He should have been afraid of all of them. But the fear that twisted his guts and pulled on the muscles of his neck was not directed on those things. He was scared to be left without his only anchor in this world that shifted and surged like a stormy ocean. He had come close to losing John so many times already…

“You are still shivering,” John noticed in a gentle voice. “Come closer and lay your head on me.” Without a word, Anders complied and John pressed a kiss and then his cheek to his temple.

Anders had never been seasick in his life, so it wasn’t the residual impressions of the ship’s motions that made him feel giddy all of a sudden, but rather the manly smell of his lover. And yet, his exhausted body could not muster an erection. Strangely, it did not matter. They shared their warmth, breathed in synch and their hearts beat in unison. It was enough for now.  

John’s hand moved from his head and slid down to the small of his back. Anders wore all his stress there and he couldn’t help a moan when the long fingers dug in the flesh and muscles. John had massaged him with the same dedication, to make him relax and prepare him for penetration the first time they had sex together.

“I used to make you utter that kind of sounds, only louder,” John whispered. “Of course that was back when I could take care of you properly.”

Anders allowed himself to lean further into his husband’s taller form and increase the contact of their bodies. “You want me,” he said, not sure if this was meant as a question, an affirmation or a wish.

“I do want you, but I’m not sure my body would act accordingly to my desires tonight,” John regretted. “I promise that soon I’ll be able to perform by conjugal duty again and satisfy as I should.”

Anders was about to retort that he hoped John would not only do it out of duty when a knock at the door interrupted them. They had to step away from each other.

Anders fetched a blanket to cover himself. “I came to check on Milord’s bandage and bring you food,” Zeb announced when he answered the door. Anders’ first reflex was to scold him for interrupting a rare moment of privacy, but the sight of food deterred him. He snatched the terracotta plate from Zeb’s hand and wolfed down a piece of bread right away.

“I was wondering if we could discuss a raise of my wages, sir,” Zeb asked as he was ushered into the room.

“Yesh, yesh,” Anders replied around his mouthful. “Of coursh, later.” He shared the content of the plate with John and then, knowing that his spouse did not want him to witness the change of his bandage, he busied himself somewhere else in the room. He hung his own clothes to dry, lit a few candles, rekindling the fire and crouched down on the floor to try and make Tiolam come out from under the piece of furniture. But even the promise of food wasn’t enough to bait her. The fox was a ball of angry shudders and amber eyes threw daggers at Anders from behind the white tip of a tail. He left a piece of sausage on the floor nearby, convinced she’d snatch it as soon as he’d have his back turned.   

As soon as Zeb was done fixing a new bandage on John’s arm, he left the nobleman a hot potion to drink and took his leave from the room.

An urgent need for rest subsided the one for romantic communion and John settled in one of the twin beds while Anders killed the lights.

The blond man slipped under his own itchy blankets. The only thing fighting the darkness now was the light from the fireplace. He closed his eyes and wondered why he did not already feel drowsy when a question reached him.

“Anders?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me _The Story of Kenna and Lachina the Lewd Priestess Twins_.”

Anders opened his eyes. “Again?” He had narrated that story on at least six different occasions while he kept company to his spouse on the lower deck of the White Rose.

“Come on, just a little piece of it,” John insisted.

“I possess a whole collection of erotic novels - you’ve seen it.” It was, in fact, a substantial collection that Anders had brought with him when he moved to Brastàl and he knew most of those short novels by heart. He had admittedly a short attention span and memory, but formidable retention capacities when it came to naughty stories.  “What about _The Deflowering of the Meadow Wench_?” he suggested. “I’m sure you’d love that one. Why are you always asking me the same one?”

“Because it’s the funniest! Tell me again the part where Lachina sits on the hero’s face.”

Casting a glance at his giggling lover, Anders frowned. “I know it makes you laugh, but that’s not meant to be funny, you know.”

John remained in quiet musings, until he asked: “Do women really do that?”

“Gods, John… you really need to go out more.”

“Please, recite a bit of it for me” John implored. “Won’t you have pity on your lord? I have very little means of entertainment these days.” He was smiling again and it bared the slightly crooked teeth at the front. It gave him that boyish air that always made Anders’ heart grow fonder. He wondered what people would think if they saw the impish side of John James Mitchell. In truth, Anders was glad he was the only one lucky enough to witness it. “Fine,” he surrendered in a sigh, “but I warn you, it’s very possible I’ll fall asleep in the middle of it.”

“I don’t mind,” John replied, settling himself more comfortably to listen.  

“So, it goes that way: _‘Did thee embed thy staff of love in the sweet cave of her womanly folds?’ asked Sir Allister to his gallant brother…”_ Anders recited the whole part where Sir Ailbeart tells his older brother about his first night with the twin sisters, but, at some point, the storyteller could hear John’s profound and even breathing, an indication that he was asleep. He propped himself on one elbow and looked over to make sure it was the case. John looked peaceful: his dark curls spread on the pillow and his lips parted.

“Good night, you scamp,” Anders whispered.  

He lay back on his own pillow, but, an hour later, he was still staring at the ceiling and slumber failed to find him.

He soon figured out he had no chance to fall asleep, because the voices in his head had him on pins and needles. The fact it was mainly Mike’s voice added anger to the dread:

_“That’s not what John would have wanted: to see his husband flee instead of facing the enemy. Grow a pair and defend your castle. You have soldiers and walls - use them. You have a duty to this country.”_

Anders had refused to act as a Lord Regent and chose to evade his responsibilities in favor of a sneaky escape. And why had he done it? “ _To bring back the rightful Great Lord.”_ It’s the answer he gave back then. But that Great Lord was not of much use to his country as he was now. Anders had found his husband, but the country still lacked a legitimate ruler. Would John be able to ever rule again? That was the true question.

The last words he heard from his mother-in-law also beset him. “ _There must always be a Mitchell in Brastàl,”_ she had declared. And he had left her to hold the fort without a look back.

 _“If I’m going in search of John, it’s not out of bravery but because I’m too afraid of a future without him.”_ All he could hope now was that John would be able to forgive him his lack of courage.  

On a whim, Anders got out of bed. His shirt had barely had the time to start drying but he threw it on to cover his nudity and stormed out of the room, still making sure not to rouse his sleeping partner. Once in the corridor, he went to a neighboring door and opened it, fairly sure he wouldn’t stumble on a stranger. He was relieved to find Zeb seated on the floor next to the fireplace. “Tell me you have alcohol,” he said without preamble.

Zeb shifted and showed him the two bottles at his side.

Anders hastened to take place next to the hearth as well and he grabbed one of the bottles. “Gods! I need that!”   

“Now that you’re here, maybe we can speak about my raise,” Zeb ventured.  

“What raise? Do I look like I’m made of money?”

“But,” the younger man protested, “earlier you said-“

“I lied. I do that, just ask my husband,” Anders cut him off. He used his teeth to pull the screw off the bottleneck. “No, actually, that’s a very bad idea, don’t ask him,” he retracted his previous statement. He took a swig and had a wince of disgust. “Yuck! What did I just drink?”

“Gin,” Zeb provided flatly. He seemed to think his employer had had to be desperate to seek his companionship.

“You call that gin?” It tasted like it had been brewed in a salted-cod barrel. Anders eyed the bottle with suspicion, but then he shrugged. “It’ll have to do, I suppose.”

“You still haven’t told him, have you?” Zeb asked. Without a context, the question could seem cryptic, but it wasn’t since it pointed with precision the first obsession of Anders’ mind. “That’s why you’re here drinking from my bottle.”

“The bottle I paid for.”

“With the money you owe me,” Zeb replied tit for tat.     

Anders had an irritated snort. “One thing I know is that I’ve not come here to be lectured by a manservant.”

“I’m a healer!” Zeb protested.  

“Semantics.” Two more gulps of gin disappeared down Anders’ throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That still doesn’t give you the right to mingle in your masters’ affairs.”

Usually, Zeb would react with more intensity to that kind of scolding, but tonight, he was pensive and grave. “The inn’s warden - he told me earlier about a trial in Brastàl. He heard that last week, Duncan ordered the execution of several people loyal to Milord.”

The bottle froze, suspended midway to Anders’ mouth. It took a split second for him to be in cold sweat. “Who? Who did he execute?”  

“The warden didn’t say. I don’t think he knew.”

Anders took the second bottle of gin, uncapped it and handed him to Zeb. “Well, that gives us one more reason to drink, because there is nothing we can do to help those poor sods.”

 

 


	2. On the Very Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge amount of thanks to my courageous beta reader Katyushha. 
> 
> She asked me to warn you guys that this is a very intense chapter: so consider yourself warned. :)

 

 

_Ornàn blew loudly through his nostrils, pawed the ground and shook his mane in protest when a stable boy led another horse past his box._

_“Shhh,” Anders shushed the stallion. He petted the soft muzzle and carded his fingers through the forelock. If everything else failed, he knew he would only have to sing a few words of a song to distract him. No matter how out of tune it would be, he knew it worked magic on his still somewhat feral war horse. Seeing that Ornàn was calmer, Anders kept speaking in a soothing tone and went back to grooming the croup. He was pleased to see that the stallion’s ears angled backwards to follow the sound of his voice instead of paying attention to the other horses in the stables._

_The day was hot for one in_ _the_ _middle of spring and Anders wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. He was taking a short break to tie his golden locks into a ponytail when he heard purposeful footsteps coming up the central alley._

_He wasn’t too surprised when he saw the friendly, scarred face appear above the door of Ornàn’s box._

_“I thought I’d find you there, son,” James Mitchell rejoiced._

_Anders returned the smile. “Good day, my lord.”_

_James took in the sight of Anders’ horse. “Well, this is one magnificent specimen!”_

_“His name’s Ornàn. I’ve finished taming him. He’s mine now,” Anders answered with unconcealed pride. Mikkel had never thought he’d succeed, but against all expectations, Anders showed remarkable tenacity in training the horse. When Anders put his mind into something, he could go to great lengths to prove his older brother wrong._

_“I spoke to the stable master on my way here. He told me your horse was a true piece of work. You did an excellent job it seems,” the Great Lord congratulated him. “Though, sometimes I wonder if we’re really taming them or if it’s the other way round.”_

_Anders patted the stallion’s shoulder. “It does feel a little like that sometimes,” he admitted._

_“All it takes is love and no small amount of patience,” James remarked. His eyes shifted from the horse to its owner. “A bit like marriage,” he added. Anders knew he was watching his reaction._

_For a second, he considered ignoring the obvious bait, but he was not one to shy away from speaking his mind. “Everyone expects me to loo_ _k_ _forward to the marital state, since my betrothed is so high-ranked and perfect in every matte_ _r,_ _” he replied briskly. He knew James would not take exception of the bitterness in his voice. He expected him to laugh fondly, because that was the ruler’s usual reaction in the face of Anders’ rebellion, but, this time, the dark eyebrows were knitted in a thoughtful frown._

_“Even though I love my son with all my heart, I’m well aware that he is far from perfect, trust me.”_

_At a loss of witty answers, Anders grabbed the hoof pick and the conversation paused as he cleaned the dirt caked under Ornàn’s feet._

_“I sometimes catch a glimpse of the man he’s becoming and I worry,” James confided after a lingering silence. “There is something dark in him, and also an extreme vulnerability. I guess he’s no different_ _from_ _his ancestors in that regard.”_

_Once the hooves were cleaned to Anders’ satisfaction, he asked for the soft brush and Lord James passed it over to him. Again, he was not sure what to make of these confessions or what the Great Lord was trying to achieve by telling him that._

_“We Mitchells don’t break eas_ _ily,_ _” James carried on, “and we are strong enough to keep the darkness at bay… until the day we can’t.” John’s father was staring in the distance, through the opened doors of the stables. It seemed he was speaking to himself now and not so much to Anders. “My grandfather succumbed to this darkness, when he lost his spouse. I saw how grief could turn the most gentle of men into someone cold and cruel.”_

_“But you are a Mitchell and you are not like that. You are not cruel,” Anders objected without thinking._

_The pale shadow of a smile over James’ lips, but it was gone when he spoke again. “I had it easy, as far as ruling goes. I’m afraid it won’t be the same for John. The North Hills are changing. There are forces at work, and they push in a dreadful direction.” He turned his head and looked straight at Anders. “I hope for my son’s sake that when the day comes for you to appear in his life, he’s going to be ready.”_

_Then, the frown was gone and the lord shook his head and laughed. “I’m sorry, Anders. I’m rambling. Old people do that. It’s not all doom and gloom, I promise. Look! We hav_ _e w_ _onderful weather outside. Why don’t we saddle our horses and take that freshly trained stallion of yours for a ride?"_

_Anders agreed._

_They did not speak of John again that day._

***

A sickening sensation welcomed Anders back into the realm of the living. His saliva had turned into a thick paste in his mouth and his head throbbed with pain. His stomach emitted a displeased grunt, reminding him of the poor choices he made the night before.

Zeb’s gin left an awful aftertaste and the worst kind of hangover. Anders had always been proud to be one to hold his liquor, but this felt much like that one time he had stolen his governess’s brandy. He was fourteen and he had drunk half the bottle as quickly as he could for fear of getting caught. He had spent the following hours on his all fours throwing up in Aklànd castle’s moat.

The second thing Anders noticed was the strong patch of heat to his left side. He was not alone in the bed.

The body next to him moved as John was stirred from sleep. Hazel eyes blinked at him in mild confusion. “Don’t mistake me, I’m not complaining,” John said in a raspy voice “but how did you end up in my bed?”

In all honesty, Anders did not remember. Perhaps, his drunk self just collapsed in that bed because it was the closest one to the door. Or maybe, he unconsciously needed the comfort of his husband’s presence.

He evaded the question by sitting at the edge of the bed and giving his face a vigorous rub. He had to sober up, and quick. He felt John’s lips brush over the mark on his back, where the rigging rope flogged him. The kiss stung and soothed at the same time. There was a hint of tongue that aroused goosebumps on his skin.

“We need to leave and get on the road before the sun is up.”

“Why?” John asked. His arm sneaked around Anders’ mid-section and his hand went up his bare chest.  “We could stay in bed together a little longer,” he purred in his ear, pulling him down gently.

The idea of diving into his lover’s embrace and having him nurse his hangover with body warmth, hopefully sex and some more sleep was very tempting, but Anders resisted. “The plan is to get to the Gull’s Nest before the village rises.” His found his shirt on the floor, stood up and put it on. “We’ll be safer there.” The piece of clothing was not completely dry yet and the remaining humidity made him shiver.

“Safe from what?” John inquired.

Anders staggered to the fireplace. His head was swimming. Seasickness had to feel that way, he thought; a drunkenness without the good side of it. He took the jug of water Zeb had brought with the food the night before. He rinsed his mouth with the tepid liquid and spat in the ashes.      

John was sufficiently awake now to notice his spouse’s curious behavior. “Anders? Are you drunk?”

Anders drained the content of the jar and then, he took John’s kilt and came by the bed to drop the bundle of fabric on his lap.  “You should start getting dressed while I go and wake Zeb.”

In his husband’s stare there were more questions he was unwilling to answer.  

***

Against all expectations, the White Rose had not sunk during the night, but the wind had broken the mast, and with the rudder gone, the damage made the ship unfit for sailing. John couldn’t hide his relief. The mere idea of having to sail again made the poor man sick to the stomach.

Before they parted ways with Dugald outside the inn, John insisted that Anders gave him some money to cover the loss. Anders clung to his sporran and argued that the storm was not his fault. But John wouldn’t hear any of it and Anders had to yield some of his precious coins. They bid their farewell to the sailor and took, on foot, the road that went north, up the valley and along the cliffs.

The path leading to the Gull’s Nest winded through a stripe of rocky moor separating the sheer drop from the crops belonging to a few farms scattered along the way. A herd of sheep gave unimpressed looks to the travellers and resumed their grazing when they walked past them.

In the aftermath of the tempest, harsh weather still obscured the landscape. The drizzle and wind swept the coast and the ocean spread its white petticoat of sea spray over the moor like a bold maiden. The tide carried tree trunks and all kinds of debris from the storm. From the top of the cliffs, they looked like the heads of monsters and selkies coiffed with sea weeds.

As they plodded on the road, the rawness of the elements cured Anders of his hangover somewhat.

Tiolam was the only one in high spirits. She skipped ahead, off road, and made a show of jumping and diving, head and front legs first, into the thick layer of heather covering the ground, just as she used to do in fresh snow.  

“I swear, at some point she is going to snap her neck,” John commented, but neither did Anders listen, nor did he hear. He was too tangled in his own foreboding to pay attention.

He could not stop thinking about the trial and the executions in Brastàl. He was doing his best to keep himself from spiralling down as his brain kept on speculating on the identity of the victims. If, among the dead were Annie, George, or even worse: Lady Ann… would John ever be able to forgive him? He had been the one who let them fend for themselves in Duncan’s hands after all.

Anders surveyed the cottages along the road. The countryside was gloomy yet quiet, but traveling in broad daylight in an inhabited area made him nervous. Any of the farmhouses could be the den of a Scarecrow member, ready to make him eat a couple of arrows.

His husband was walking by his side. Anders caught the distinctive look of worry on John’s face and he figured out he had to tone the brooding down a notch if he did not want to raise his suspicion. He’d have to tell John everything soon. Knowing about the executions made the prospect even more difficult, but he could not keep on lying and delaying the inevitable any longer. His nerves would not take it. He already felt like he was about to burst. The need to take it off his chest now trumped the dread he had of his spouse’s reaction.

John was still staring. Anders forced a smile, but it must have looked like a grimace, because John put his hand on his forearm to stop him in his tracks. “Anders? Did I say or do something wrong?”

Anders pulled his arm away. “No, you didn’t. Let’s keep walking.” He followed his own command and walked ahead, but John soon caught up on him. This time, his hand was firmer when it seized his arm and Anders had to stop again.

“I can tell you’re upset. You’ve been like that ever since we left Rosecliff and it only seems to be getting worse. What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Anders snapped without meaning to. He was starting to panic, feeling cornered by the insistent questions, but somehow, he managed to keep a semblance of composure.

John was too smart to believe such an obvious lie. “You know you can talk to me, do you?” he reminded his lover with searching eyes.

 _”Really? I’m not sure you’d say that if you knew what’s on my mind,”_ Anders thought. Suddenly he hated everything about it: his husband’s genuine concern, the way he squeezed his arm to reassure him that he was there. Empathy coming from him, right now: it annoyed him. “Not now. Tonight we’ll talk,” Anders promised, “once we are cozy and fed.” He took John’s hand and laced his fingers with his so they would quit grasping for answers. “Come, now. Look, we’re nearly there.” He pointed his forefinger at a promontory advancing in the ocean further up the road. There, on the tip of the small peninsula, at the very edge of the cliffs, proudly stood the Gull’s Nest.

The ancestral summer house, with its two towers, its three floors and its elaborate garden, was more of a small castle than a house: a reminder of the past wealth of the Johnson clan, before Lady Elizabet dilapidated most of their fortune. The Gull’s Nest used to employ a dozen servants all year round, to keep everything in order. Nowadays, the ruling family could only afford the services of Stuart MacIntyre, the old gardener turned butler, cook and repairman despite himself. Anders knew Stuart since forever and they often bonded over their shared hatred of Elizabet Johnson. He believed the man would be discreet and understand Anders needed to wait for the right moment to tell the former Great Lord what had happened in his home during his absence.

When they reached the promontory, the small party took a bridge over a pond: the remains of a moat around the ruins of ancient walls: vestiges of a distant era when the clans were at war with each other and the Nest was a defense fort.

Three years had passed since Anders last visited the Gull’s Nest. Many of the few truly good images he kept of his childhood had this place as a background. When the Johnsons came to their summer house, those were the rare times when Lady Elizabet let him be the little boy he was and forget for a moment that he might sit at the right of the Great Lord one day.

Every time he had set foot here before, Anders felt a distinctive tingle of joy, but the sentiment he had in the present circumstances was of another nature altogether. He let go of his husband’s hand. The weathervane that took pride of place over the unlocked gate represented a seagull with its wings spread, but now, it looked to him like a corpse-eating crow.

On the other side of the gate, the castle’s courtyard was silent. The barracks hadn’t housed any guards for decades and there were probably not more than one or two aging horses in the stables. If Anders did not know better, he’d swear the castle was abandoned. Not that it looked neglected or derelict in any way. It was more of an impression, as if the vine-covered building had accepted its hours of glory were over. The Gull’s Nest was an old, lonely lady, but any passerby could tell she used to be a beauty.

John took in his surroundings with a neutral expression that gave little clues on his opinion of the place. Zeb, on the other hand, gave his blond master a skeptical glance, silently asking if Anders was still positive they’d be welcomed there. Truth be told, he was starting to have his doubts as well. In these dreadful times, maybe it would be a safer bet to assume that everybody he knew was an enemy at worst and a snitch at best; Stuart MacIntyre included.   

Not letting Zeb’s reluctance deter him, Anders strode across the courtyard. One thing was clear to him: he was not going to sleep in the moor with the wind and the cold drizzle tonight. He was going to spend the night with his toes warm and his stomach full.

He climbed the two flights of stone stairs, the fox and the two men on his heels. He used the door knocker, putting enough strength in his action to be heard in the big house. Two minutes passed in silence. In absence of a response, he knocked another time and waited. Once again, nobody came.

In the meantime, Zeb was trying to catch some movement through the windows. Patience, though, was not Zeb’s prime virtue, and neither was Anders’, so when the healer shouted on top of his lungs: “hey! Is there anybody in there?”, he got smacked across the head.

“Shut up, you dimwit!”

The slap caught Zeb off guard and he reached for the back of his head with wide eyes.

The last thing Anders wanted was to attract unwanted attention from the people living in the farms further down the road.

John could not know the true motive behind the violent and unexpected reaction. He remained so dumbfounded he did not even try to intervene in Zeb’s favor like he would usually do. Anders realized how he might look from his husband’s perspective: edgy, aggressive, borderline paranoid… scary even. It was not a pretty nor was it a reassuring picture.

“You two stay here,” Anders ordered, in a hurry to escape the uneasy situation. “I’m going to walk around the house and see if Stuart is in the garden.” Nobody tried to hold him back, and even Tiolam chose to stay put.   

Anders skirted the North tower and soon found himself with his feet in a puddle of water. The rainstorm had flooded the path to the garden.

Just like the main gate, the one to the garden was unlocked and offered no resistance when Anders pushed it open -- one more clue that there had to be someone home.

Situated at the back of the house, the garden was designed to look like a balcony overlooking the sea. It was surrounded by high walls to protect the trees and plants. From where Anders stood, at the gate, he could see over the walls, but he remained unaffected by the splendors of the rugged coastline. Instead of basking in the beauty of the landscape, he hurried down the stairs and into the garden. He had to see Stuart, to brief him on the current situation before the gardener could get to meet his husband.

A rapid look in the small greenhouse and behind yew shrubs later, Stuart was still nowhere to be found. A perplexed Anders was walking back to the gate when he noticed a sheet of paper stuck between the branches of an elder tree. He did not quite know what made him stop and reach for it, but he did, and when he smoothed the piece of paper and took a good look at it, his heart missed a beat.

There was his name on it, written in full, just under a basic sketch of his facial features, along with the promise of a reward for any information that could help anyone catch him. He had seen this placard before, on a signpost in Longdale. Apparently the price on his head hadn’t been lifted. Why would it be?

In a mix of anger and haste, he shredded the placard to pieces, and when he reached the top of the stairs, he got rid of it over the wall. It seemed like all he did these days was hide things, conceal his thoughts and destroy evidences of Duncan’s usurpation, as if he was the one being guilty of it.

His mind clogged with dark thoughts, he went back to the front of the house… only to discover that John, Zeb and Tiolam were gone. It was only then that his presentiment turned into a certainty that a disaster was afoot.

He started looking for them toward the South tower and finally spotted John and Zeb outside the kitchens’ door.

The healer had picked the fox up in his arms so she would not sneak away, like she usually did whenever she did not get enough attention for her liking. He was speaking to someone standing inside. John had a piece of paper in his hand and was looking down at it. Anders was not close enough just yet to see what was on this paper or to read his expression, but he felt the blood in his own veins suddenly turn cold. He prayed Wittem, the spirit of fortune, that what his husband was holding was not what he thought it was, although every new step he made seemed to confirm his suspicion.

“Oh! Sir Anders! It’s such an unexpected pleasure!” Stuart exclaimed when he finally spotted him. It turned out he was the one speaking to Zeb from inside the house.

Anders greeted the gray-haired man with a brief nod. “Likewise, Stuart.”

John was too engrossed in his reading to acknowledge Anders’ presence.

Seeing that all of his attention was on his spouse and the poster, Stuart felt like he owed Anders an explanation. “I was telling... his lordship... that I get rid of these placards systematically,” the gardener said, hesitating a second on the appropriate title to give to John.  “I blame their disappearance on the wind when I get asked about it, but Duncan’s men always come back to nail new ones on the doors.”

“It says: ‘ _wanted by order of the Great Lord_ ,’” John read out loud, disconcerted.

“Were you not aware Sir Anders was the target of a man hunt?” Stuart asked.

John shook his head.

Anders could have said something or tried to send Stuart a sign for him to stop talking and bury him alive, but it was too late. Anders had been in ball and chains since the beginning and now Stuart had thrown the ball overboard and there was no way now to prevent him from being pulled to the bottom by the weight of his own lies.

“I’m a loyalist,” Stuart assured John, failing to read the situation. “You have to know that I condemn Duncan’s actions in taking your throne, even more so now that it is clear you are not dead.”  

“Taking my…” John’s expression got bleaker and his face hardened as he filled the gaps of the story in his head. He crumpled the placard into a ball. “Anders.” Something in the tone of his voice was seething. “Did you know about this?”

“I…er…hm…I mean…” Anders attempted to answer. The palms of his hands were clammy with sweat and his breath so short that it chopped his words into tiny, pathetic pieces.

“You should all come in,” Stuart suggested to defuse the growing tension. “It’s not good to stay out in the cold, and there is always a risk that somebody sees you.” With a gesture, he invited them across the threshold and they followed him up the spiral staircase until they emerged in the light of the sitting room.

They dispersed in the spacy parlor, but nobody sat in the armchairs. Anders avoided any eye contact with his husband and walked to the fireplace where he pretended to be very interested in the pattern of the sculpted apple tree branches on the mantelpiece.

“I’m sorry we did not hear you knock the first time,” Stuart apologized. “We were in the kitchens all day.”

The plural made Anders react. “You’re not alone here? I thought Mikkel left you in charge of everything.”

“No, there’s a maid here with me, but don’t worry, she won’t say anything.”

“Are you sure?” Anders insisted.  

“Positive. She’s a good kid.”

John had not spoken up yet, but his fist was crushing the placard so hard his knuckles turned white. From the corner of his eye, Anders watched the tension crawl up his arm to his shoulder and neck. He knew that John was far more upset than what he let appear. “Why is Duncan looking for Anders? And why is he calling himself the Great Lord now?”

Stuard started playing with his necktie, uneasy. “Beg your pardon, your highness,” the gardener began, “not that I doubt what you told me, but if you stayed a while in Rosecliff and then came to Faoileag by ship, I have to say I’m surprised you didn’t get to learn anything of what happened in Brastàl during the last moons.”

“I’m about as surprised as you are, Master MacIntyre,”John replied in a calculated and contained tone, “but I’m sure you will be able to fill me in, since others had failed to do so.”

Anders gritted his teeth.

“Before I say anything, my lord, I have to warn you,” Stuart hesitated. “I’m afraid you’ll find this all quite upsetting.” He looked over at Anders for help, but the blond man had none to give.

Part of Anders was glad to be saved the ordeal, but another part panicked at the thought of the consequences that would end up falling on him.

“I understand,” John said, low and firm. “Nobody likes to be the bearer of bad news, but I hope you’ll prove yourself loyal to my family and my person enough to let me hear the truth. I need to know what happened to my land and more importantly, to my people.”

Too happy to have the opportunity to stay out of it, Zeb had found a corner of the room with a plush velvet armchair where he retreated with Tiolam. In his opinion, Anders had made his bed and it was high time he lay in it.  

The old gardener cleared his throat. “Well… where should I begin?”

“From the start,” John encouraged him.

Anders risked an eye toward his spouse. Since they got in the room, John had not budged. With his amputated arm placed across his chest, he resembled one of those broken statues of the ancient kings that could still be found along remote forest roads. Just like theirs, John’s face was sculpted in cold stone and wore deep, unsettling shadows.

“After the fall of Archerwall, Lord Duncan, MacGregor and MacCallum rode North with two dozen of their men,” Stuart explained. “They had a hundred soldiers following on foot two days behind. When the party on horseback reached Brastàl, they took the city. The rumor had spread that the nomads had captured you. They assumed you were dead and Duncàn proclaimed himself Great Lord.”

John was fuming already. “He has no right to that title without a vote of the clans’ chieftains!”

“We all know that, my lord, but I don’t think it mattered to him. Besides, he had the MacGregors, the MacCallums and the few surviving members of the Ferguson clan on his side…” He glanced in Anders direction again. He was about to add something else, but retracted at the last second.  

Anger had reduced John’s shapely lips to a thin, rough line. “Did the siege make many victims?” he asked.  

“The reports are not all consistent, as one could expect, but from what I know, there hadn’t been any siege or any battle to speak of.”

“What do you mean? They just opened the doors and let him in?” The way the muscles of John’s jawline twitched remained imperceptible to his interlocutor, but Anders noticed. His heart started hammering in his chest. He was precisely the one who had ‘ _just opened the door and let him in_.”

“I wish I could enlighten you,” Stuart regretted, “but it appears that Duncan did not encounter any resistance from the Brastàlers.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”  John exclaimed and Anders wished he could disappear under the floorboards.  

Stuart seemed to share Anders’ discomfort. He shifted from a foot to the other. “I’m afraid it’s not all…”

“Do tell. I think at this point nothing can surprise me.”

“There was a trial in Brastàl, against you and your husband, all of it orchestrated by Lord Duncan who played judge and jury.”

“And on what charge were we accused?”

“Treason against the federation in your case, sorcery and treason in Sir Anders’. Of course, since neither of you could be found, you’ve been judged and sentenced to death _in absentia_.”

Anders’ breath caught in his throat.

“Does that mean they’ve executed the sentence as well?” John asked.

“I’m afraid so… I’m sorry.”

This time, he locked gaze with Anders. If both their hearts dropping in synch could have made a sound, it would have been a deafening one.

When a nobleman was condemned to die _in absentia_ , the tradition had it that his war-horse would be slaughtered in his place, since the animal shared a fragment of soul with its owner. _“Ornan and Pessa: they’re dead_ ,” Anders said in mind. It seemed unreal, made up, like the first verse of a mean nursery rhyme. He saw his own grief reflect across John’s expression.

It became obvious at this point that Stuart would have preferred to stop talking, but John had demanded the whole story. “Speaking in favor of the former Great Couple had also been declared a capital offense,” the gardener went on, “and the people who had defended you at the trial have also been executed.”

His fingers gripping the wood and digging into the velvet material of one of the armchairs’ backrest had turned John’s hand into the clawed one of a bird of prey. “Who!? Who did that bastard kill!?” he roared.

“The first to be executed was the master of Brastàl healers’ guild. I believe he used to be your preceptor.”

 _Master Sileas._   

John’s shoulder sagged and his head dropped forward. The whimper that came out of him was heartrending.    

 _“Who is going to take care of the magpies now?_ ” was Anders’ first, rather absurd thought. The image that spontaneously sprung to his mind was the healer’s unusual pets. Of course, he had not been as close to the man as his husband was, but the news of Master Sileas’ demise still came as a shock.

It took one long minute before John’s face reappeared from behind the curtain of dark curls. His eyes were red but dry. “Is that all?” he asked, challenging life, daring it to hit him harder if it could.  

Stuart looked sorrier than ever. “No. It’s not all. Duncan also executed the druidess of Somerled temple. Madraìd-”

“Aileen… Madraìd Aileen,” Anders supplied, out of reflex. The thought of this death was just as unconceivable as the others. The woman who had married John and him -- the one who had saved Anders’ life and showed him kindness and support; she had also paid it with her life.   

John’s lament was verging on a wail. “No, no, no…. this is not possible! This is a nightmare!” His grief had turned wild. He stepped toward the gardener and Anders worried his husband would attack him. “What about my mother?” he pressed Stuart, grasping the sleeve of his shirt. “What of her servants and the head of my guard?”

“From what I’ve heard, Lady Mitchell is still in Brastàl, as Duncan’s prisoner, but I don’t know what the fate of your guards was,” Stuart replied. “As for the servants, one of them was to be accused of carrying a child with unclean blood, but the maid disappeared before she could be tried. I’m deeply sorry. I wish I could provide more information or give you more hopeful news.”

John freed the old man. He let himself fall into the closest chair and sank into it, his hand over his eyes.  

“And my brother?” Anders risked.

Stuart heaved a deep sigh. Obviously, he had tried to avoid that subject on purpose, but now Anders gave him no choice. “Duncan pretends that Lord Mikkel chose to side with him of his own free will and supports his new regime.”   

A doubt on Lord Johnson’s loyalty to the Mitchells was about the last thing Anders needed. All he wanted now was for everybody to forget he ever existed: change his name and perhaps, go live with the mountain shepherds. Anders wished he could be anywhere but here. He wished he could be far away from his own sinking heart, his husband’s stare that burned a hole into his back or the weight of the water-soaked pile of letters in the front pocket of his coat.

John said the inevitable words Anders most dreaded to hear:  

“Master MacIntyre? Is there some place where I could speak to my husband in private?”

“Of course! I can show Your Graces to their bedchamber right away,” Stuart suggested with an undisclosed relief. “You must be exhausted from the travel. Then, young Zeb can accompany me to the kitchen where I’ll find something to eat for him and the little fox.”

John inclined his head in gratitude. He reminded Anders of the Spirits Mounts: the volcanoes north from the bay of Aklànd. A column of smoke was usually just a small, benign-looking sign of the fire and the turmoil truly raging in their core.                               

***

It’s only when he walked into the master bedchamber that Anders realized he had come into this room only a handful of times in his life. When he was young and his father and step-mother occupied it, he was not allowed in. Then, Mikkel became Lord and the whole point of leaving Aklànd for a holiday was to spend as little time around his brother as humanly possible. He preferred riding his horse in the countryside all day and chasing lovely peasant girls to visiting Mikkel in his private quarters.

It was without a doubt the most lavish room of the castle, but just like the rest of the house, it gave an impression of withered elegance. The corners of the ceiling were adorned with warm-colored wood paneling and dusky gold leaves. The wall opposite from the bed displayed a tapestry representing a nye of pheasants taking off from a forest floor of moss and ferns. Its bright nuances of green had faded over the decades.

Linen sheets covered the furniture to protect it from the dust, though the velvet draping of the bed was heavy with it. The silver chandelier was on the floor at the end of its chain, waiting to be filled with candles and hoisted up again. A vase of daffodils from last spring remained forgotten on one of the three window sills. The flowers had dried; their delicate neck bent in a last curtsey. The light from the window came through their parchment petals, giving their death an aesthetic quality. Anders would have liked for their strange beauty to distract him further from the matter at hand, but a tall form came in between and blocked his sight as John stopped in front of the window.

Stuart and Zeb were gone downstairs and the second floor was silent again, except from the low rumbling of the ocean. Also, the cries of the seagulls outside could be heard no matter where one was in the house.

As he put the latch on, with apprehension climbing up his throat, Anders noticed the portraits of his ancestors aligned over the door: three generations of Johnson clansmen. Anders wanted to believe he did not deserve their condescending stares.

John and he had not exchanged a single word yet. Anders wasn’t sure what to say, or do. The absence of reaction from his husband was worse than anything. John was suffering, that much was evident. After what they had learnt, it was natural. He himself wanted to crawl into a dark corner and curl up there for an indefinite period of time. Maybe, as a spouse and a lover, his task was to comfort his other half, but all good hunters knew that wounded animals were the most dangerous ones, so he kept a respectful distance.

Unable to stay in place, Anders sat on the bed, but stood again soon after. He found a quill on the bedside table and fidgeted with it. He repeated in his head the list of those who had perished. A jolt of pain, anger and incomprehension erupted at each of their names. “Master Sileas and Madraid Aileen… I’m not able to wrap my head around it,” he confessed out loud. “It’s horrible. My Ornàn… and your poor mare… I can’t believe that boar-faced turd dared do that to them!”

John was still a silent mass of granite. When he spoke, it was in was in a rough voice that almost made Anders jump. “Since when?”

Anders peeked over his shoulder, as if expecting his husband to be speaking to someone else, but they were definitely alone in the room. “Sorry?”

“Since when have you known?” John repeated, not louder, but sharper.  

For the span of a breath, Anders considered faking innocence and pretending he had no idea what John was referring to. He battled with himself, but he was tongue-tied and unable to either lie or be honest.

In the meantime, John had turned around.  “I want the truth,” he demanded. “The whole truth, not just the small parts that will make you feel better about yourself.”

“What makes you think I-”

John interrupted him by busting in a false laugh. “What makes me think you knew about everything and lied all along? Oh please, you really want to play that game with me? I’m not as weak and tractable as I look!” He stomped toward his spouse, and then paused four steps away. “I’ve noticed how you’ve been acting lately. I thought it was out of concern for our future, but I was wrong. It was much worse than that. We’ve lost everything and you’ve hidden it from me!” The look of betrayal, hurt and outrage looked awful on his beautiful features. “Not only that, but your brother is involved in that treachery! It’s Mikkel who betrayed me: handed my castle and my title to Duncan, is that it? Is that why you did not want me to know!?”

Anders was frozen on the spot. Something told him this conversation was going to be way worse than any scenario he had anticipated or imagined.

“Answer me!” John hissed.

“Mikkel can be an arsehole,” Anders provided, avoiding the irate hazel eyes, “but he doesn’t have anything to do with it, at least not to my knowledge. I suspect this lie is part of Duncan’s propaganda to legitimate his actions. When I saw Mike last, he was determined not to let him take Brastàl.”

“If it wasn’t Mikkel, who was it, then? Who opened the gate of our home to that monster and allowed him to imprison and kill our friends? Who!?”

Anders took a trembling intake of air. “I did.”

To his credit, John did not seem to have seen this coming at all. His face fell. “What?”

“I told the guards to let Duncan in. I figured out it could spare lives if I did not confront him.”

Eyes wide, John pulled his hair and stared at his husband in disbelief. “I can’t believe this… I just can’t believe you did that! Are you bloody insane!? Are we speaking of the same Robert Duncan?” He started pacing in the room, overwhelmed. “My mother, and also George and Annie, who are like a brother and sister to me, my friends, my advisors; when I left I entrusted their safety to you! Were you out of your damn mind? What did you think would happen?”

“I ordered them to deny their allegiance to me. I thought they’d be safe if Duncan could be persuaded they were on his side!”

“Duncan may be ambitious, greedy and cruel, but he is not stupid! You really thought he’d fall for that?!”

“I had no choice!” Anders defended himself. “I asked your mother and Annie to come with me, but they refused!”  

John’s nostrils flared. “Of course they refused!” he fumed. “There must always be a Mitchell in Brastàl! You had twenty archers, thirty swordsmen and twenty of my best guards, without counting the city’s militia. Duncan and his men were only twenty. The soldiers following them were exhausted and starved! You were the one inside the walls, for the spirits’ sake!”    

His own shoulders went stiff when Anders felt anger rising in himself as well.  “I think you forget that I wasn’t groomed me to be a warrior, but to be _pleasant_ to your highness,” he scoffed.

The jeering only contributed in fueling John’s fury. “You keep saying that all the time like it’s a good justification!” he yelled, foaming at the mouth. “But, I know for a fact that my father would have broken our engagement if you turned out to have none of the qualities of a leader! You may not be a trained warrior or a strategist, but you had all my personal advisors at your service! Any idiot with the strategic advantages you had could have held the city! So stop hiding behind some lame excuses!” He planted himself in front of the Aklànder and Anders could see his discolored lips and contracted pupils from up close. “I didn’t marry you primarily for the pleasure of your company. I needed someone to help me protect the legacy of the Mitchells! I needed someone to take my place as a ruler and a protector if I fell! That was _your_ task!”

Anders did his best to hold the scowl aimed at him, his arms crossed over his chest. But this armor was ineffective to protect himself from all the resentment in his lover’s demeanor.

His tone dripping with bitterness, John went on. “Just before my surgery, when I thought that maybe I wouldn’t make it, I made you promise to protect our people and prevent Duncan from taking everything that was ours. You gave me your word! Surely you must remember that! And now I learn you had the audacity of making a promise you had already failed to keep! You lied to me, Anders! You lied to my face, several times, and you kept on lying until you had no other choice but to tell the truth!”

“You had gone through so much already!” Anders protested. “I was trying to spare you!”

“Oh yes? Are you sure it’s me you were trying to spare?”

“Listen! What I did in Brastàl, I didn’t have a choice -”

“Yes! You _had_ a choice! And now, Master Sileas is dead and Madraid Aileen with him. Maybe George and Carl too, for all we know. They’d still be alive if you had done what you were supposed to do!”

“I did exactly what I had to do to save you! If I had stayed in Brastàl even an hour more, you’d be dead by now!” Anders was beside himself and shouting back.

“I was already dead! Now look at me!” John removed his coat and tossed it aside to show his husband his stump. “Look at what you so heroically saved! I’m no war lord anymore! I can’t even defend myself! I’m nothing! Those people Duncan killed, did you really think my life was worth more than theirs?”

There was not much hesitation on Anders’ part. “Yes!”

“How?!”

“Because you’re my husband!” He softened somewhat to add: “and I do love you.”

It did not seem to move or soften John. His eyes were dull with disappointment. “Then, you’re more selfish than I thought. Because I know for a fact that master Sileas’s grandchildren loved him too. Now they’re in grief, just like the priestesses of Somerled now cry the loss of Aileen.”  

“Are you saying that this is all my fault?”

“I’m saying that you shouldn’t have come for me. You should have let me die. But instead, you acted out of fear and egoism. I can’t believe Carl and George let you do such a thing without lifting a finger.”

“Mikkel tried to make me stay, play Lord Regent and defend Brastàl, but I drugged him and escaped by the laundry chute,” Anders blurted out.  

“You _what_?” A vein was pumping at the side of John’s neck. His sinews were so tense they seemed about to snap.

“I –”

“No! I don’t even want to hear it!” John pointed a shaking finger at the door. “Get out of here!”

“John, listen-”

“I said: get out!”

Anders swallowed down around the hard lump in his throat. He pulled something from inside his pocket. “I should probably give that back to you now.” He dropped the wet pile of letters on the bed on his way out.

Once safe on the other side of the closed door, he rested his back against it and shut his eyes. Inside the bed chamber, his husband was running amok.

Distraught, Anders listened to the sounds of furniture being shoved across the room and the crashing of objects thrown to the walls. He had been right to compare John to a wounded animal earlier, because the screams of rage and pain that reached him did not sound human in the slightest.

***

Since it became evident that his lord was not ready to speak to him again just yet, Anders went to the bedchamber neighbouring the one John had locked himself in. It was the one he used to share with his siblings as a child. He discovered it in the same state as the master bedroom, all of its furniture covered in sheets.

Hating the idea of waiting in the dark, he opened the shutters and the windows, letting the wind whoosh in and chase the stale air. Then, he pulled the sheets from the cabinets and also from the four beds placed in a row along the wall. He paused next to the third bed and ran his fingers over the letters carved on the footboard:  “Anders” the letters said. The name “Tyrone” was carved on the bed at the right of this one and “Mikkel” on the one at his left. The bed closer to the door had “Axl” on its footboard.

Johan Johnson had had these beds made for each of his sons once they were too old and too big to fit in a crib.  Lord Johnson had also allowed the boys to choose an image to go with their name. Having always been his predictable and boring self, Mikkel had chosen his tutelary spirits’ symbol.  Tyrone had opted for a dandelion flower. When the time had come for Axl to choose, he had asked for the image of a bed: because a bed on a bed was something very logical to a toddler.

On the footboard of Anders’ bed was…. a toad wearing a tam hat and riding on the back of a trout. He used to think it was the most hilarious thing in the world. Over the years, the humour of it had worn off, but he still felt a spark of fondness for the imaginative kid he used to be.

Anders patted and smoothed the wool mattress and lay down on it. He tucked his hands under his head and settled for a long staring contest with the ceiling.

He thought of Ornàn with a searing pain in the vicinity of his solar plexus. He tried to rationalize it all and tell himself that, after all, it was “just a horse”. But Ornàn had never been just “just a horse” to him. He had been a close friend and confidant, as well as the symbol of Anders’ coming to age. He suspected it was the same for John. He knew that in the next room, his husband mourned the loss of his own companion: the mare he had shed sweat and blood to train. Very few things in life could be compared to the bond between a horse and its owner: the trust, the harmony and wordless communication.

Anders also thought of how John had tamed Ornàn during their second marital trial, with such determination, and how, as he was hurt, Anders had seen his betrothed appear in the night, victorious, on the back of the white stallion. The blond man had tried to be derisive about it at the time, but John had impressed him and won some of his respect that day. Then, while they rode back to the castle together on Ornàn’s back, Anders had realized it would be way more complicated than anticipated to keep a cold and neutral distance with his groom-to-be.

All Anders could hope for now, with a shiver of disgust and rage, was that his horse had not suffered too much when Duncan’s butchers slaughtered him. And Pessa was probably pregnant at the time she was killed. If she had lived, she would have given birth to one exceptional foal.  

His mind drifted to the subject of the loyalists’ execution. Even now, it still seemed to him like one grotesque farce. How were the people of Brastàl fending now, without their best master healer and the kids from the castle without their teacher? What happened to the priestesses of Somerled temple now that their protector and guide was gone? Had Duncàn enslaved the women and girls to satisfy his soldiers? Anders spared a thought for Edna, the priestess he had almost bedded. She was one more reason for John to hate him if he got to know about it… and Anders had already given him plenty.

The humid chill started to penetrate under his clothes so Anders left the bed and went to shut the windows. The rain had stopped, but the sky was so dark over the breaking waves. It was hard to tell whether it was close to noon or midnight. He drew the curtains further open and went to the hearth to light a fire.

He resented the injustice of it all. While in Brastàl, his life was threatened by the Scarecrow. Once the rumor about the blond invaders had spread, most of the citizens would have certainly wished for Duncan to be in charge instead of him. He should have told this to John earlier, to make him understand why he had left the city. But that was usually how arguments went: afterward, he thought: “ _I should have said this or that_ ”, but in the heat of the fight it became difficult to make his point. The deed was done anyway.   

Deep down, he knew that John was mostly right, though. Fear had been the prime motive for his decision to flee without even trying to fight Duncan: nothing to do with courage or any sense of duty. He did not want the burden of the lordship of the clan. He was scared of having to bear the responsibility of protecting the Mitchells’ possessions and people. He wanted to save John, not only out of attachment, but because he thought John was the true man of the situation and that, therefore, it was his role to handle this war.  As for the threat of the Scarecrow, Anders could have surrounded himself with loyal guards, night and days, like Carl had suggested. But his pride prevented him from accepting to be “babysat”. Maybe he would have never succeeded in rallying the population to his leadership, but he had never even tried.

With great displeasure, he remembered something Mikkel once told him: _“You’re good at talking, but when it comes to doing you’re weak.”_ He wondered how anyone could have ever thought he’d be a good Great Consort. At some point, he was going to fuck it all up. It was written in the stars. How could he have expected anything else? Perhaps that was the real reason why he had tried to sabotage his relationship with his spouse at first: he knew it was never meant to work.

The kindling wood in the hearth started to ignite. The small flames peeled the bark off the log that Anders added soon after.

Of his own admittance, it had been incredibly good for a short while: John and he, together. They had been what naïve people called “a happy young couple”.  When did all start to go south? Was it when John lost his hand, or prior to that, when he was captured in Archerwall? Was it the moment when Anders escaped from Brastàl that’s spoiled everything or was it even before, when John left him to go to war?

No.

After a moment of reflection, Anders was able to pinpoint that precise pivotal moment that preluded the descent into chaos and pain.

It was only a few days before John announced he was going to war. Anders was still unsuspecting and John was decided to make the best of the weeks they still had together. That night, Anders had just settled in the bathtub the servants moved to their bedroom. He was waiting for his husband to come back from yet another meeting with his advisors. He had spent his own evening responding to letters, reading and chasing Tiolam around the room to give her coat a much-needed brush. Now the fox was sound asleep in her box of hay and Anders took this opportunity to close his eyes and empty his head.

He only opened them again when he got the sudden feeling of being watched. Without surprised, he found John standing at the foot of the bathtub.

Anders gave his lover a languid smiled.

“What are you doing?” John asked, his voice almost severe --his eyes dark with the most urgent kind of longing.

“I’m bathing,” Anders replied. He rested his arms both sides of the bathtub; a casual way of flirting. “That’s generally what people do when they’re in a tub filled with water. Care to join me?”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re not bathing any longer,” he decided. And with those words, John plunged both arms into the water, not caring if he soaked his clothes in the process, picked Anders up from into the bath and carried him to the bed. The lord’s hungry hands on Anders’ wet skin had the shorter man so hard so quick that he required to be taken right away. Within a minute, John was inside him. Anders’ last rational thought, before a savage pleasure took over his senses, was that living this life, with this man; it could make him happy.

That’s when he had doomed himself, because as soon as he had started truly caring for the outcome of his marriage, he had, at the same time, exposed himself to unlimited possibilities of hurt and heartache.

Distracted, Anders had left the iron poker too close to the fire, so when he grabbed it to stir the embers, he burned himself and cursed. He was sucking on his index finger when he heard footsteps in the corridor and a discreet knock.

Anders pulled his finger out of his mouth. “John?” he asked, uncertain, his heartbeat taking speed.

The door creak open. “No, it’s me, sir,” Zeb announced.  

“Ah Zeb…come in.”

The healer was carrying a tray with a glass of beer, a loaf of bread, butter and a pot of beans.

“I’m not really hungry, but thank you. You can leave it there,” Anders instructed, pointing his injured finger at a nearby cabinet.

Zeb executed the order and seemed surprised to be treated with such an unusual civility.

“Did you bring your master something to eat as well?” Anders inquired.

“I did, but he refused to touch it. And I changed his bandage, but then I left immediately. I must say, he scared me,” Zeb admitted.  

Anders frowned.  “How come? Did he threaten you?”

“He didn’t say anything. He did not even look at me once the whole time I was there.”

“Have you tried to talk to him?

“No, sir. I was afraid to. You should have seen his face…”

“Hm,” Anders emitted as only reply. He looked into the fire again. 

Zeb cleared his throat. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, yes.” Anders dismissed him with a gesture of his hand.

Left alone once again, he crawled back into bed. He was beyond exhausted, but none of his attempts to lessen his agitation or get rid of the lump in his throat worked. Instead of staying there, stricken by sadness and regret, he convinced himself that finding a book to read was a good idea. He went into the corridor and headed to the library. The reading room was at the other end of the hallway, near the North tower, but Anders did not go any further than the next door: the one of the master bedroom.

He pricked up his ear, but did not hear a single sound from inside. He was about to knock, but his fist hovered over the wooden surface, unable to make the move. Instead, he put his hand flat on the door, as if trying to feel a heartbeat.  He stayed there a long moment, hoping for the spirits-know-what. He thought of calling John’s name, but decided against it.

He retreated into his childhood bedroom, the project of a trip to the library completely forgotten.

He found Tiolam lying on his bed, her ears flat on her little triangular head. Only her eyes moved when he sat by her side. He touched her on the back and she uttered a despondent whine. “Don’t worry, Tio,” he said out loud. “He’ll come around. You know he has a strong temper, but he never stays angry for long.” Anders hoped he was right. But he sensed that, this time, it was different.


	3. The Boar that Destroyed the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders had told himself he was done bearing secrets, his own or anyone else’s for that matter, but secrets always found him somehow. Now he had one more sticking to his skin like a leech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my best efforts, it seems I'm not able to update more than once every month. At least I'm steady ;) Thanks for bearing with me. 
> 
> Thanks also for Katyushha for all the help.

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 __  
  
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock

Funny how insomnia turned the most innocent noise into a nightmare.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock_

Anders shoved the blankets aside and sat up to glare at the clock. Unashamed, the antique piece carried on with its persistent ticking.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock_

He left the bed and stomped across the room to snatch the clock from the mantelpiece. The only way he could be left in peace was to bring it somewhere else, to another room, as far from his ears as possible. He had such a hard time drifting into slumber already, after what had happened between him and his husband, he was not going to accept being deprived from sleep by a clock.  

He walked out of his childhood bedroom, determined to get rid of the offending object, but, as soon as he crossed the door, his eyes caught some movement at the far end of the corridor. He saw a young woman standing there, her features barely revealed by the faint halo of the candle she held. She was of medium stature, with dark curly hair brushing the top of her shoulders.

 _“Annie?”_ Anders whispered, astonished.

When she noticed him, she took her leave down the North tower’s staircase in a hurry.

“Hey! Wait up!” he hailed her.

Without thinking, he went after her. She was quick, and even though he could hear her footsteps on the stairs below, he could not outrun her.

When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she had disappeared. He called her name and looked around in the dining hall and the sitting room, but there was no trace of the young woman. The unexpected encounter sent his mind fast tracking. According to what Stuart had learnt, Annie managed to break free from Brastàl before Duncan could get a hold of her. Maybe she had talked to Mike prior to her escape and he had told her she could come to the Gull’s Nest and be safe there. That still didn’t explain why she would run away from him.

Anders looked down at the clock still in his hand. He left it on the mantelpiece and decided to go back to bed.  

He remained in an agitated and restless state until dawn. He thought of Annie, but for the most of the night, his sleep was haunted by John’s expression of disappointment and ire.

On the morning, Anders woke up perplexed about the events that occurred during the night. He saw that the clock was gone from his room, so it meant he had indeed went downstairs to get rid of it, but he wondered if everything else he had seen would turn out to be just the fruit of his imagination. The vision of this woman in the corridor could have well been wishful thinking, or, in this case, wishful hallucination. He wanted to know that Annie was safe and sound. At least, that would be one less thing for him to feel guilty about and one less reason for John to hold grudges against him.

Anders didn’t have any real desire to pull himself out of the bed or to mix with other people. Any mundane activities such as getting dressed or leaving his room in a quest of something to occupy himself seemed pointless. None of what he could do would bring the dead back to life or right any wrong. So why even bother?

The only thing that could make everything at least a little less unbearable would be for John to accept that neither of them could change the past. But he knew he couldn’t ask his husband to move on when he found it difficult himself.

In the bedroom he used to share with his brothers, the tedious hours stretched into days.

For three whole days, Anders stayed cloistered there like a hermit. All he got during that time were short, mostly wordless visits from Zeb.

For three days, he waited for John. Any noise in the corridor made his heart skip a beat in a mix of hope and dread. He wanted to believe that his husband would make the first step to mend what was broken between them. But he waited in vain. John never came.

His spouse was, in fact, just a few meters away from him, but the stone wall between them was not only a metaphorical one. It made reaching for each other much more complicated, if not impossible.

Tiolam refused to leave his side and the sadder Anders got, the closer to him she curled up on the bed. He had no doubt she could feel his anxiousness and when, in the dead of night, he realized that maybe what was broken could never be repaired, the fox tried to kiss away the pain by licking the silent tears from his face. Anders buried his face in red fur and hoped he could go back in time. To what moment? He was not sure, as long as it allowed him to use his cards more wisely in that dangerous and complicated game called marriage.

_“From now on, your people are my people. My undoubted loyalty binds me to your clan and I shall bear your name with pride and respect.”_

That was the vow he had taken on his wedding day, and he knew the importance John gave to that promise. By betraying those words, Anders had disturbed the very base of what was binding them as a couple.

On the fourth morning of his reclusion, Anders decided he had had enough. He got up, stumbling after his legs, weak from the lack of exercise. He opened a window. The fresh breeze from the sea slapped him across the face.

He had been prisoner in the darkest corner of his own mind for so long that he had nearly forgotten the existence of the outside world. The sea and the sky wore a matching, ethereal blue and the surf was of a white so bright and pure that it almost hurt his eyes.

Anders was taken aback by the excess of light and colors, as if he expected the nature to mirror the bleakness he felt inside. Under the warm sun, springtime had started settling in underneath the shrubs and in the flower beds. The leaf buds were already blooming and everything looked significantly greener.

Stuart was busy weeding the kitchen garden, and Anders felt an impulse to go and join him outside. The idea of having someone to talk to suddenly appealed to him. Even Tiolam asked for the door, so Anders let her out before he prepared himself to face the world.

He spread his kilt on the floor, folded it carefully and for the first time in three days, he dressed up properly.

Doing that simple action reminded him what purpose had led John and him to the Gull’s Nest in the first place. The summer house was only supposed to be a stopover on their journey to Aklànd. They still had to prevent Herrick from conquering the North Hills. They had to save Lady Ann, George and Carl, and also find Annie.

Anders could feel the heavy weight of these impossible tasks on his shoulders. Sorrow had rendered him apathetic, but he could not allow himself to stay idle any longer.

He walked out of his bedroom, determined to make something constructive of his day, but an unexpected obstacle made him take an abrupt halt.

A real, living child, a toddler to be more precise, was sitting on the floor outside his door. It was a strange and rather unexpected sight.

The little girl had her two hands in Tiolam’s fur, pulling big handfuls of the winter coat the fox had started shedding. The vixen was lying on her flank, accepting the treatment, though Anders couldn’t tell if she liked it or not.

The child immediately noticed Anders and her big, brown eyes darted across his face in open curiosity. She had dark, wispy curls with coppery highlights and it contrasted with the blue of her knitted sweater and the green of her embroidered tunic.

Despite the fact he had had two baby brothers, children made Anders uneasy. For some reason, this one unsettled him more than any other. The girl had to be between one and three years old, but Anders was the worst when it came to guessing a child’s age. The little girl put herself on her feet and, to his horror, Anders realized she wanted to interact with him.

Speechless, he threw a look around. She couldn’t have appeared out of nowhere. According to the little knowledge he had on the subject, toddlers weren’t known to do that. She had to have parents or guardians somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

She walked to him and presented her fistfuls of fox hair.  “Bucca!”she said in a decided tone.

Anders searched for an escape.

“Buuuucca,” she insisted, louder this time. She opened her little hands and some of the red fur fell to the floor.

“I don’t understand what you want from me!” Anders told her, helpless.

Seeing his uncertainty, the toddler moved back, but Tiolam was still there, playing dead on the floor. The child tripped over the animal and fell on her bum. Her lower lip quavered and her cheeks reddened.

The toddler started wailing.

It didn’t take more than that for Anders to panic. “Shit! No! Just… shhh!” he begged her, gesticulating nervously. “For the spirits’ sake! Where are your parents?”

She provided no useful answer, and instead, her crying gained in intensity.

“Please stop screaming!” He wanted to call for help, but he doubted anybody would hear over the high pitch noises.

Tiolam had already run away and Anders was thinking about doing the same thing when a woman stormed out of one of the empty guest rooms and hurried to pick the child up.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the mother apologized. “She is not supposed to come here and she knows it.” The woman was already heading for the stairs when Anders recognized her.

“Gaïa?” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” She used to be a handmaiden in Aklànd castle, but she had quit her position about two years ago. He had not expected to see her again, let alone serving in a house belonging to the Johnsons. She must have been the one he had mistaken for Annie in the dark: they had a very similar bearing.

The handmaiden stopped to look at him briefly, as she rocked her crying daughter. The toddler had her face still scrunched up in displeasure. Gaïa was obviously in haste. “I’m sorry she disturbed you,” she apologized again. “I’m going to bring her back downstairs. It won’t happen again, sir.”

Before he could say anything more, the mother and the child were already gone.

***

The countryside around Faoileag was mostly moorlands and fields, with very little woodland, but the sheltered garden of the Gull’s Nest, with its dense shrubs and odorant plants that attracted insects, was a haven for species of birds that couldn’t be found anywhere else in these parts. Two redstarts and a crested tit bird took off from the branches a crab-apple tree when Anders passed by.   

When Stuart saw him, he smiled and it creased his already wrinkled face. “I knew you would come out when you’d be ready.”

“I think that if I stayed in that room only a minute more, I would have suffocated,” Anders admitted.

“If it pleases Your Grace, you can help me weed that area over there,” Stuart suggested, pointing at the vegetable patch. “I always found gardening to be a therapeutic exercise,” he confided. “As I pull out the weed, I like to imagine I’m getting rid of the things in myself I don’t like: the flaws, the regrets and the black thoughts.”

Anders doubted getting rid of the white clover and pimpernel in order to seed turnips was going to fix his life, his country and his marriage, but he removed his coat nonetheless and rolled up his sleeves. He went to the tool shed to grab a hoe and got to work as soon as he was back.

“I saw Gaïa earlier, the handmaiden,” he told Stuart. “I used to know her from when she was working for us in Aklànd. I didn’t know she was married.”

“She’s not. At least not to my knowledge.”  

Anders looked at the gardener in surprise. “She isn’t? Who’s the bairn’s sire, then?”

Stuart crouched down to pull on an especially tenacious and deeply-rooted dandelion. “She won’t say, but I always suspected it was one of you fancy folks from Aklànd.” He stood again and dusted dirt off his knees. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Anders reassured him. “ _Axl. Axl, Axl…”_ he scolded his younger brother in mind. _“Making brats everywhere in the country. I have a feeling that it’s going to get you in trouble one day.”_  He leant on his tool and his eyes followed the flight of a seagull passing over the garden walls. “She had a dalliance with Axl for a while,” he informed the old man. “He’s the child’s sire, I reckon.”  

“Sir Axl is not aware of her existence, is he?” Stuart asked. “I’d be surprised if he was, since Lord Mikkel sent the girl here soon during her pregnancy.”

“ _He doesn’t know he has one already and another one on the way_ ,” Anders thought. That Mikkel had tried to sweep the scandal under the carpet didn’t come as a surprise. But at the same time, Anders could understand his older brother’s reasons for not wanting to pour oil on the fire. Anders’ relationship with Axl had already suffered enough from this whole story. It would have just made things worse if Axl had known that the girl who had walked out on him because of Anders was also carrying his child at the time.

The gardener and the nobleman worked in silence for a while. Anders finished cleaning the turnip row and he started on the garlic. The green sprouts had already grown half a foot high. Anders wasn’t one for manual labor, but he had to admit there was something rewarding about getting dirt under his fingernails for something more than mere survival.

The sun shifted toward the zenith and Stuart offered his helper a bit of beer from a bottle that he kept cool in the shade of blackcurrant bushes. As Anders drank, he lifted his eyes to the three middle windows of the second floor. The curtains and shutters were opened, but he could not distinguish any sign of the occupant.

Stuart followed his gaze. “Are things good between you and His Lordship?” he inquired.

Anders shook his head and swallowed his mouthful to reply:  “No, they’re not.”  

“I’m sorry, if I caused any trouble.”

“The fault was mine long before it was yours,” Anders reassured him.

“Hopefully, your lord is going to find the courage to forgive you.”

Anders put the lid back to the bottle. He wondered if beer was supposed to taste so bitter or if he had just lost the taste for it. “I take that you’re aware of what happened between John and I?”

“The walls of this house are thick,” Stuart reminded him, “but they weren’t enough to muffle the sound of your fight.”

The blond man sighed. “I wish things had happened differently, but I see now that I would have never had the courage to tell him everything myself.” He dug up a rock with the tip of his boot and threw it on the heap of weed. “I’ve wronged John in the past and he was prompt to wipe the slate clean. In the first sparks of love, I guess you’re ready to forgive anything. I took my privileges for granted, but things have changed.” He looked again at the windows of the second floor. “There is more at stake now.”

Stuart took the hoe from Anders’ hand and put it down in the grass along his own. “Come,” he told him. “I’ve something to show you.”

Intrigued, Anders followed him along a cobblestone alley guarded by rows of yew trees to a small greenhouse. Inside, every table was crowded with plants patiently waiting to be transplanted outside. From a high shelf, Stuart retrieved a wood box.

When he opened the box, Anders saw a collection of mismatched items. Amongst them was some colorful marbles, a mirror made of polished bronze, a ceramic spinning top toy and something that looked like a ball.

“What’s all this?” Anders inquired.  

“This is my treasure box,” Stuart replied with a wink. “This is where I put all the objects I accidentally dig up while working in the garden. You’ve no idea all the things I can find.” He took the ball and threw it in the younger man’s direction.

Anders caught it in a swift move. The ball fit snuggly in the palm of his hand. It was old, battered and dirty, but the rough leather in his hand felt familiar. “That’s a shinty ball!”

“Yes,” Stuart confirmed. “I remember those summer afternoon when you and your brothers would play outside,” the old man reminisced. “You, trying to drive the ball as fast as you could. Sir Tyrone, trying to smash it out all the way over the garden’s wall, and Mikkel would umpire …” His voice trailed off into nostalgia. “Those were good days.”

They walked out of the greenhouse and sat on a stone bench under the yew trees. Stuart settled the box on his lap.

Anders put the ball back where it came from in order to examine the rest of the hoard. One of the objects caught his attention. It was a toy: the rough figure of a wild boar carved in hazel wood and perched on small wheels that could allow a child to pull it behind them at the end of a string. The string was gone and the axel was eaten by rust. “I remember this,” Anders said, taking the toy in his hand and inspecting it. “It was Ty’s.”

“No, actually. It was yours,” Stuart corrected. “Your uncle Albairt Johnson, Olaf’s father, he gave it to you as a present for the summer fest. But every time Sir Tyrone was seeing you playing with it, he started crying. So, in the end, you gave it to him and never tried to take it back.”

“I did?”

“Yes. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

 _“Wow, I was way more selfless back then,”_ Anders reflected. However, he was not sure if he had yield the toy to Ty out of pure altruism or because he knew Lady Elizabet would blame him for making his brother cry.

“Do you know why we give that kind of toys to children?”  

“No,” Anders admitted. It was a custom in the North Hills to give wild boars carved in wood to children, especially little boys, when they reached a certain age, but he had never tried to learn the reason for this tradition.

“Because the wild boar is the symbol of anger -- of the rage and the fury that sleeps in all of us. The choice of unleashing it is ours and we have to use it wisely. It’s an important lesson to learn from a young age, I reckon.”

Anders chuckled. “I gave all my anger to Ty.”

“In a way, I think this isn’t far from the truth,” Stuart mused. “As a child and also as a young man, you always let others around you throw tantrums, but you never allowed yourself to be angry. You snapped, sure, but you didn’t bare your teeth much,” he observed. “And of course, the toy is also a reference to the story of The Boar that Destroyed the World.”

“I don’t think I know that one,” Anders admitted, running a finger over the animal’s tusks.  

“You don’t? You never paid much attention to your studies, did you?”

“May I remind you that I had Lady Elizabet as a preceptor?”

“Oh yes, it’s not easy to get interested in studying when your teacher is the bog monster,” the gardener conceded.  “The story of the Boar goes back to the first days of the world, when the two only spirits were the sun and the moon. They coupled and gave birth to a hundred souls-“

“And amongst the hundred souls,” Anders cut in, “fifty two of them became spirits and the other half became the first humans.”

“Correct. But the story I’m speaking about happened when the sun and the moon assigned their roles to the spirits. One of the spirits was more eager than the others, so he asked to be the first one to get his assignment. The request was granted to him, but in the end, when the time came, the circumstances didn’t allow him to be chosen first. The sun and the moon forgot about their promise and the eager spirit ended up being the last one to be called. When he did, he received the name of Ang.”

“The spirit of wild boars,” Anders supplied. He gave a flick to one of the toy’s wheels, but it didn’t move. The wheel was stuck in rust and dried mud.    

“The spirit wasn’t happy with that choice,” Stuart carried on. “He thought this assignment was beneath him. The spirits are peaceful beings, but in this one, the feeling of injustice mounted to a desire of vengeance. He went mad and destroyed everything in his wake: everything the other spirits had started building and protecting, because he considered he had been wronged.”

“How did the other spirits get him to stop his rampage?” Anders asked.

He was never going to get an answer. Stuart had been distracted. Someone was coming toward them on the cobblestone path. It was Zeb and he had a troubled look on his face.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” he addressed his master. “Can we speak in private for a moment?”

At once, Anders knew it was about John. Even before Zeb specified “it’s regarding Milord,” Anders had already chunked the toy back into the box and was dragging Zeb away. The situation had to be worrisome for Zeb to muster the courage to come and tell him. To do so, the younger man had to overcome his fear of being reprimanded by his master.

“What happened?” Anders pressed the healer as soon as they were out of earshot.  

“Two days ago, I brought Milord some water and food, but he didn’t take a single bite and he refused that I looked at his stitches,” Zeb reported. “I’m not sure he even sleeps. He stays in the armchair, staring into space. Now he’s locked himself up in his room and hadn’t let me in ever since.”

“He’s been in there without supplies for two days now?”

“Yes, sir. Without a proper diet and proper rest, his arm is going to take a lot longer to heal… and there is always a risk it gets worse and that the fever returns. I don’t know when you are planning on leaving for Aklànd, but the last time I examined him, he was not fit for travel and I doubt he is now.”

Anders took a deep breath to steady himself. “This isn’t good,” he said sternly. It was an understatement.   

“Are you going to do something about it?” Zeb asked.

“Of course I am!” Anders groaned. “I’m going to get that obstinate bastard to eat, even if I have to break his door down and hold the spoon to feed him!”

Zeb in tow, Anders walked back to the house and went up the north tower to the second floor, anger and worry pushing him in the back.  The first thing he did when he reached the master bedchamber was to knock, so hard he almost bruising his knuckles in the process. “John!”

No sound came from the other side of the door. Dread increased its pressure on Anders’ chest. What if his husband had done something irreparable? He did not even want to contemplate this possibility.

“John, open up!” he yelled again.  

This time, he heard a growl followed by a response: “Go away.”

“Don’t be a child and open that door!” Anders insisted. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing in there? Your only goal is to punish me, but you’re going to have to get more creative and find another way, because this isn’t right!”

Some shuffling indicated that someone was walking to the door, and then, he heard the rattle of the bolt. The door opened.

“Not everything is about you, Anders,” John pointed out coldly.

He looked positively awful. His eyes were caved in, red and puffy. His hair was a greasy, tangled mess and his cheeks were hollowed. He reminded Anders of a badger he had found caught in a trap once. The animal had started to eat its leg to free itself.

John was blocking the doorway with his large frame. Anders knew he was not welcome, but he did not give a damn. He forced the door further open and slipped inside. John gave him a dark look. “I didn’t invite you in and I don’t want to see you.”

Anders planted himself in the middle of the room and refused to budge. Zeb had wisely chosen to stay outside until he’d get the permission to come in. He disappeared from Anders’ view when John closed the door.

“You’re wasting your time. I have nothing to tell you,” John stated. Anders noted the dried blood on his spouse’s left hand. Giving the numerous broken objects in the room, John must have cut himself with one of them in a fit of temper.  

John went to the window. He was casting a long shadow on the floor, all the way to Anders’ feet.

“I know you’re angry, and I know you hurt,” Anders began, “but this isn’t an excuse to let yourself waste away.” He waited for an answer and felt annoyance rise in him. “I carried you all the way here from the Great Plains at the peril of my life. You will do me the pleasure of staying alive. You’re going to eat, and wash, and let Zeb change your bandage, and this in not negotiable.”

He expected to get a tongue-lashing for his efforts and he was not disappointed.

“I have no orders to take from you,” John said. “You’re the one who owes me obedience, not the other way round.”

“ Technically, you’re not a lord anymore,” Anders reminded him, “so I’m afraid I’m _only_ your husband now.”

John flinched and tensed up, but he feigned to ignore his husband’s remark.

Anders was fed up with being given the cold shoulder. It emboldened him enough to go to John, grab him by the arm and force him to turn around and look at him. “I know you’re angry,” Anders said, putting enough authority in his voice to be taken seriously, “and you blame me for everything that happened, but there is no way to undo what is done. And you should think about the positive side of it. Your mother is alive, and before I left Brastàl, I showed the secret passage to Annie. That’s probably how she managed to escape from Duncan. You must see I didn’t do bad things on all fronts!”

“That’s just great! Should I congratulate you?” John lashed out. The anger he had demonstrated during their fight four days ago had not abated in the slightest. If anything, it had only built up in the confinement of the master bedroom. “Now we have a pregnant woman alone in the wild, and it’s not like she can take shelter at Somerled temple now, can she? As for my mother, she has a lung condition: all her siblings have it and her sister died from it! That’s why she spends most of her time inside! If Duncan throws her in an unheated cell, she is going to get gravely ill! Do you understand what that means? She is already condemned!”

Anders stepped back, overwhelmed by all the aggressiveness and resentment John displayed. “I didn’t know that!” he defended himself. He had hoped four days were enough for the dust to settle. His husband’s scowl put an end to all his remaining illusions on that matter.

“Of course you didn’t! It’s not like you pay much attention to people around you unless it serves your own purpose,” John accused his husband. “You didn’t think about my mother when you chose to run. From what I understood, you used her and our friends as a diversion so you could escape unharmed. I’m not sure you even thought about me or what I would have wanted! You only thought about you: your fear of loneliness and your wish to avoid your responsibilities!”

After the initial shock, Anders was able to find his feet and stand his ground again. “Do you know what? If I could go back in time, I’d do the exact same thing!” he stated, confronting his husband with the notion.  

“You’d condemn those poor souls to die all over again?”

“First of all, you seem to forget I wasn’t the one holding the axe: Duncan was! Second of all, I knew I was taking a risk by leaving Brastàl and-”

“Are you feeling no shame for your actions whatsoever?” John interrupted him, foaming at the mouth.  

“You mean, am I going to prostrate myself in front of you and apologize for having saved your life? Never,” he hissed.  

John gave him a look of contempt.

“You have no idea how it was!” Anders continued. “If you had a shred of compassion, you’d know I was facing impossible choices!”

“No, of course, I have no idea what it is to endure hardship or to have difficult decisions to make, do I?”

The condescending tone and the spite pushed Anders to bite back. “Perhaps you need to be reminded that you didn’t think of me either when you chose to stay in Archerwall instead of retreating with the others! You abandoned me and your clan that day! That’s rich of you to take the moral high ground and chide me for avoiding my responsibilities when you preferred to die rather than face the consequences of your own stubbornness!”

The attack hit the mark. John blanched and within a second he was in Anders’ face, his breath heavy and rough. His voice was almost a murmur when he spoke again, but it was scarier than any yell. “Let’s make a deal. I’m going to eat and let Zeb take care of my arm and in exchange, you will not set foot in this room ever again. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear. In fact, you’re doing us both a favor,” Anders gave back, just as icy.

He turned on his heels and left the room without further ado. “He’s all yours,” he told Zeb when he found the healer still waiting in the corridor. The kid looked terrified of having to face the younger of the Mitchells after the fight he had heard, but Anders would not be of much help. He needed to get away.

Anders headed to the kitchens downstairs. It wasn’t hunger that drove him there. He was still fuming and wanted to put as much distance between John and him as it was humanly possible in the circumstances. He was unwilling to apologize for his actions and John was sullen and unforgiving. Perhaps there was no way to reconcile their positions.

He had thought that John could understand the reason why he had left everything behind and embarked on this dangerous journey to save his husband’s life. He had entertained the naive notion that John would have done the same for him. Apparently, he was wrong. _“John Mitchell doesn’t do love,”_ Miller had warned him. He hadn’t believed John’s thwarted ex-lover at first, but he was starting to reconsider. Anders’ marriage to the Lord of Brastàl was based on a contract, after all. Love was conditional to both parties holding their part of the deal. Anders had breached it. It was as simple as that.

Mortified and raging, he barged into the kitchen, almost kicking the door down as he went, only for his appearance to be met with four pairs of startled eyes.  

Gaïa was desalting cod in a bowl to make a fish pie and interrupted herself mid-task when Anders came in. Her daughter was on the floor, trying to grab an elusive Tiolam. The fox had retreated behind chair legs and made sure to stay out of reach.

Seated at the table, Stuart held a knife and a carrot, but he put both down on the table slowly. “What is the matter, sir?”

“Nothing,” Anders lied. “Everything is fine.” He knew how disturbed he looked and figured they had heard some of the heated discussion upstairs, but he didn’t feel like sharing any details.

Gaïa picked the toddler up. The little girl protested vigorously in loud child gibberish.

Anders gave the little girl a quick glance over. She favored her mother in many ways, but something in her face was decidedly Johnson.

Gaïa put the toddler out of the way and out of sight in a playpen at the far corner of the kitchen, which Anders was grateful for.

He could tell that his presence made Gaïa uncomfortable, displeased even. The reason for the tension between them was not so hard to fathom. Giving the way her affair with Axl ended and the storm that ensued in the Johnson family, she was bound to feel awkward around him. But no matter how much Axl had blamed him for all this, Anders made a point of not letting this bit of his past affect him. Besides, he had bigger fish to fry to feel even remotely concerned by the maid’s aversion to him.  

Anders sat at the table in silence. The anger was suddenly gone, leaving him completely drained.

Since Gaïa was still otherwise occupied, Stuart moved to the stove to add a log into the fire. A few minutes later, he served tea to his master.

When Anders closed his fingers around the steaming cup, he noticed how cold his hands were. He took a first sip, but then zoned out for a while, forgetting to drink. He only snapped out of his gloomy daze when Zeb walked into the kitchen.

“Has he held up his end of the bargain?” Anders asked the healer.

Zeb drew some water from a barrel and washed his hands. “He has. But I have to tell you that he’s quite weakened at the moment. He won’t be able to travel for at least a week or so.”

“I expected that.”

In truth, Anders had no wish to find himself in close quarters with his spouse any time soon, and travelling to Aklànd would mean to spend almost every second in his company. He doubted John would want that either. But no matter the state of their relationship, they’d have to leave the Gull’s Nest at some point. “I should send a message to my brother Ty, to let him know we’re here and to expect us before the end of the next moon.”

Stuart cleared his throat. “In all due respect, sir, I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I know for a fact that the house is being watched. Any message could be intercepted and fall into the wrong hands.”

The tea in Anders’ cup had taken a muddy aspect, like the water of a well when something nasty swam at the bottom. “You’re right,” he admitted. “And we can expect that there are moles in Aklànd’s court, spying for the other side. It’s better if nobody knows we’re here.” Tiolam put her paws on his knee and Anders let her climb onto his lap. She stretched her neck over the table to sniff the content of the cup. “We’re going to have to ration food,” Anders informed his staff. “If we suddenly start to order more supplies from the village, people will grow suspicious. They’ll know there are visitors here.” He pushed his cup away to prevent the fox from spilling it. “The sick and the child will get fed in priority, but as for the others,” he gave a pointed look at Zeb, “they’ll have to do with the bare minimum.”

Zeb acquiesced, albeit reluctantly, and Gaïa averted her gaze.

“Of course, we all take as our duty to do as you bid us,” Stuart said. He rose and bowed, before he announced that he had to return to his work outside. Zeb found a reason to excuse himself as well. As a result, Anders was left alone with Gaïa.

She got back to peeling the carrots and preparing the fish.

Anders’ mind was completely elsewhere, wondering how he was going to convince John to follow him to Aklànd now that they weren’t on speaking terms anymore.  He had forgotten there were in fact three humans in the room, until the toddler made her presence known by whining and throwing one of her toys over the side of playpen.

“It seems like Axl is determined to repopulate the whole country,” Anders remarked, out of the blue.

The comment confused Gaïa. For the first time, she looked directly at him. “Sorry? I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“You are not the only servant Axl knocked up,” he said. Needless to say, tact had never been his strong suit. He wanted to see if the handmaiden would try to deny that Axl was the father.   

“Oh…. I see…” she breathed. She seemed intrigued rather than shocked. “Who’s the other woman?”  

Annie was still missing and Duncan was after her. Anders deemed it wiser not to disclose too much information regarding her identity. “I’d rather not say.”

Gaïa sighed. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Axl and I : it was never meant to work.”  

Anders followed the dance of her skilful hands as she chopped the carrots, boned the fish and kneaded the dough. “Is that the reason why you slept with me?”

She hit the dough with the side of her fist. Sweat was pearling at her temple. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done with you…what I’ve done to Axl, but he would have never understood otherwise. I had to break his heart, you see? It’s the same reason why you let me in your bedchamber that night, wasn’t it? You knew he’d never let it go unless I did something awful.”

“Yes, I let you in for this reason and also because, back then, I could never say no to a bit of fun when it presented itself.” There was no teasing in his voice. He was just stating a fact.

“I’ve got chores to do,” she said in a dry tone, letting him know he had outstayed his welcome in the kitchen.

“Of course,” he complied, rising from his chair and forcing Tiolam to jump off. He cleaned the teapot and cups from the table and was about to reach the stairs when Gaïa hailed him.  

“If you ever see Axl … please, don’t tell him about Moïra.”

He was puzzled for a moment as to whom she was referring, before he remembered that babies had names too and that “Moïra” had to be the daughter.

“Why not? Maybe he’d like to know.”

She shook her head. “Lord Mikkel sent me here so nobody in Brastàl would know about it, especially not Axl. And like I said: I’m not proud.”

“Alright. Your secret’s safe with me,” he assured her. Why Axl’s women felt the need to confide in Anders was beyond him and a complete mystery. After the drama with John, he had told himself he was done bearing secrets, his own or anyone else’s for that matter, but secrets always found him somehow. Now he had one more sticking to his skin like a leech.   

He dragged his feet up to the second floor and to his bedroom.

 _“Moïra_ …” Strangely, the name rang a bell. He had heard it before. His mind was trying to make him aware of a connection between that name and the argument he had had with John earlier, but the conscious part of him was not able to puzzle it out.

In his bedroom, on the window sill, he found the boar-shaped toy. Stuart must have left it there for him as a souvenir.

 _‘The boar that destroyed the world’_ … it was Duncan and his blind greed. The boar was Herrick and his devouring ambitions for conquest and pillage.

It was also John and all the rage that poured out of him like blood from a cut throat.

It was Anders too. Powerless to soothe, he had hurt his husband even more and dug the trench between them deeper and wider.  


	4. The Shadow of a Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a very busy summer. Thanks for having been patient. I hope there is still some of you out there who are interested in this story.  
> A special thanks to my friend Kat for being an inspiration and for her help.  
> Thanks also to the ever-talented Dragon4488 for her wonderful art that makes this chapter visually beautiful.

On the other side of the thick window glass, the moors basked in moonlight. It was a perfect night for Anders to survey the whole extent of the peninsula and the road unravelling through the heather brush, from the village to the Gull’s Nest. He would not even allow himself the light of one candle to break the dullness of the room. It was too dangerous to let anyone see the light on this floor from outside the castle.

Sleep hadn’t come to Anders easily since the last time he had seen his husband eye to eye. Instead of drifting in an uneasy slumber that would inevitably result in nightmares of faceless men attacking him with swords and spears, Anders preferred spending the darkest hours standing guard in one of the guest rooms overlooking the courtyard. It gave him a sentiment of usefulness. He was protecting the little that was left of the Mitchell clan: namely its chieftain. He was fulfilling his duty for a change, not that John knew anything about it.

The castle was a prison, its walls slowly closing on Anders. Soon he’d get smothered by the unbearable atmosphere of grief and acrimony that dripped from every stone. Even if they hadn’t talked or even seen each other for ten days now, he could smell John’s anguish in the very air.

It weighted down on all of the Nest’s occupants. Stuart looked sorry for Anders, even pitied him a little. Gaïa did everything she could to avoid him. Zeb didn’t like him much, to start with, and Anders could tell the healer was taking John’s side. He could have expected some comfort from his pet, but the lack of action made Tiolam depressed. The fox hid under the furniture and sulked most of the time, unresponsive to his coaxing.

The only one who seemed unaffected was Moïra. She screamed with delight when the rain made snails come out of their hide-out in the bushes surrounding the garden porch. She laughed and played with all the carefreeness her young age allowed. She tried to make contact with Anders by any means possible: throwing toys at him or shouting loudly in her own infantile language every time he entered the kitchen. She would try to grab the aim of his kilt and step on his boots. It would be endearing to anyone else, Anders supposed, but the child’s antics just troubled him. Perhaps her simple joy of being alive and discovering the world seemed misplaced to him in such dreadful circumstances. How to explain his reluctance otherwise? He tried to lessen his own discomfort in her presence by reminding himself that he had nothing to do with Axl’s youthful mistakes. He was not responsible for his brother’s will to reproduce with unsuitable women. In the meantime, Moïra’s deep brown eyes still searched for his every time they could, and not once was he able to really meet them.

He spent sleepless and lonely nights at that window, with a knot of fear in his guts, ready to see Duncan’s men rush in to slaughter them all. When he wasn’t crushed by the fear of a violent death, Anders couldn’t help but replay in mind his last fight with his spouse.

All the things of which his brother Mikkel and his step-mother had ever accused him: being a coward, being unreliable and selfish, he had never thought he’d hear those words coming from his husband’s mouth. This was worse than anything, because he had always considered that John had a better opinion of him than his family did. His adoptive parents and siblings always had difficulty understanding who he was.

With those reproaches, John had struck to bring pain, and he had succeeded. It still hurt. Anders had a hard time coming to terms with that betrayal. They should have been partners: them against the rest of the world. Being at odds with each other was against the natural order of things.

Despite his resentment, Anders also started to miss his spouse. To be accurate, he missed what they used to be. He had grown accustomed to the touches and kisses, the affection and support. Worse than the sting of his wounded ego, the idea of having lost the younger man’s presence by his side truly pained Anders. When they were trying to survive in their cold prison in Carraig castle and while they escaped across the country, the couple had spent every single night curled up against each other for warmth and comfort. Sometimes still, when Anders managed to fall asleep and then woke up in the morning, for a fleeting moment, he was sure John was in the bed with him. This, of course, was until he took in his surroundings and reality came smacking him across the face.

 _“Come back to bed…”_ John would have said, in another life, if he had found Anders worrying for their safety, sitting there alone at the window. Anders would have accepted the gentle invitation and surely found peaceful rest in his man’s arms…but it wasn’t bound to happen tonight, or any other night.

 

***

 

So far, if John had ventured out of the master bedroom, Anders was not aware of it. The dark-haired man was making sure they would not cross path. Little did he know, Anders would get to see his husband sooner than he expected.

The bright afternoon of a warm spring day was seeping into the castle through every crack. Gaïa had opened all of the windows and bedroom doors on the second floor. A fresh wind travelled down the corridor, carrying a scent of sea salt and daffodils. Anders felt impermeable to the niceties a rare good weather bestowed upon the coast lands. Therefore, the laughter coming from the North end of the main house wing caught his attention as something odd and out of place.

He followed the sound, intrigued. Several voices ricocheted in the hallway and led Anders to the closed door of the library. The overlapping voices were mixed with happy yapping: Tiolam’s, without a doubt.

He pushed the door open, interrupting the chattering and the laughter.

Gaïa was in the middle of mending the sleeve of a shirt and Zeb was leaning against a shelf, an opened book in hand. None of them were really concentrating on their task. Their attention was riveted on the main show playing at the center of the room.

John was in a large chair, Tiolam lying across the back of his shoulders and around his neck like a live fur collar. Standing on her little legs and using John’s knee for support, Moïra had engaged the fox in a game that also delighted the adults. Every time she put her right hand in the air, the fox yapped, making the child burst in laughter. Even John sported a quiet smile.

The ephemeral hint of joy was soon swept away from John’s face with his spouse’s arrival. Anders couldn’t help but feel that he had spoilt the moment. Gaïa resumed her needle work and Zeb looked down at the page of his book, wondering where he was at. John put the fox down on the rug and stood. “I was leaving,” he told his husband.

It was too blatant a lie for Anders to let it slip.  

“No, you were not,” Anders objected, placing a hand over John’s chest to stop him when he tried to walk past him.

As the clansmen gauged each other, the healer and the handmaiden decided to let their masters sort it out in private.  

Zeb put the book back on the shelf.  Gaïa carried her daughter out of the library and Tiolam followed, hot on the servant’s heels and the healer in her wake.

“This is childish; this silence treatment,” Anders stated. “We can’t keep avoiding each other forever. It has to come to an end.”  

“You broke my trust, Anders,” John reminded him.  

“I did, you have to get over it at some point.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Then stop making it harder than it has to be! You have no other choice but to get over it. There are enemies out there. There is still a war to win!”

“Don’t you see that it’s already lost?”

“First of all, I refuse to give up until the day I’m sure there is no hope left at all. I thought this was a Mitchell trait: to never go down without a fight,” Anders argued. “Besides, we can’t stay locked up in here just waiting for it to be over. This little feud lasted long enough,” he decided. “Tonight, you and I will dine together.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes. But I do hope you’ll make the right one. Tonight, at eight o’clock, in the dining hall. I’ll be waiting for you.”

 

***

 

Anders wasn’t usually the most punctual of men, but at seven-thirty sharp, he was already changed in the best clothing he could find in the castle. The red neck cloth and the wine-colored vest wasn’t a flawless match with the blue and green Mitchell clan kilt, but the image in the mirror satisfied him enough.

He played nervously with the buttons of his long dress coat as he paced in front of John’s room. He wasn’t sure if he should escort John from his bed chamber to the dining hall or if he should just wait for him downstairs. As the one who called that dinner, he had to make himself available to escort his guest to the dining hall, but at the same time, he wasn’t even sure if John had any intention to attend at all. Perhaps his presence there, at his husband’s door, would be too much pressure on him. At the same time, Anders knew this dinner was perhaps their last chance to speak face to face: to put an end to this unbearable situation.

He could hear muffled voices from inside the master bedchamber. Zeb was inside, helping the nobleman. The door hadn’t been latched and Zeb must have forgotten to close all of the windows because it swung open a foot wide from the action of the wind.

Giving the strict moral code of his polite upbringing, Anders should have stepped away and respected John’s privacy. But over the years, he made a habit of shunting most of those rules and was keen on indulging his tendency to nosiness. Driven by curiosity, he put his back to the wall to be able to spy without being seen. He didn’t see anything of interest at first, only the corner of the bed and an half of a steaming bath tub. The two men were standing out of Anders’ field of vision.

“I’m sorry, Milord, but you have to wash up if you are to dine with your husband,” Zeb was advising his master.  

“I’m not sure I can face him, Zeb,” was the sighed answer.  

Anders understood his reluctance. To be completely honest, he wasn’t sure he could handle that meeting either. But he had to convince John that he wasn’t going to run away from this like a coward, even if that meant having to fight another verbal duel with his spouse.   

“You can always change your mind later, but I strongly suggest that you have a bath,” the healer insisted.  

“Even the most mundane of tasks seems daunting to me.”

“Let me help you,” Zeb offered.

The telltale sound of rustling fabric followed. John had yielded and was getting undressed.

Never had Anders thought he’d be jealous of Zeb, of all people. But jealous he was. It didn’t have anything to do with sexual competition. It was the fact that John actually spoke to the healer:  that he let Zeb approach him while Anders had been banished and tersely shut out of his private space. Would John ever trust him enough to let him get that close again? That Zeb had privileges that were refused to him made his blood boil.

John’s naked form came into view as he moved aside to step into the tub.

Anders’ breath caught in his throat. He barely noticed the missing arm when he took in the perfect lines of John’s shoulder blades and spine, the curve of his backside, the firm circumference of his thighs.

When he had found John in the nomad camp, he was so emaciated. But now, despite the sorrow and the privations, the dark-haired man had managed to regain some of his lost weight. He had a fuller face and figure. The movement of his arms and legs, the way he held his head -- they had found a certain grace and strength again. For the first time since their separation at the beginning of the winter, Anders recognized the young warrior he had wedded half a year ago.

A wave of lust, as strong as it was unexpected, hit Anders at once. It seized him without warning: the want for a body against his; not just any, but the one the spirits appointed for that task. He needed a hard, flat stomach rubbing against his; hips working him closer to the edge with every push. Despite all the harsh words that had been exchanged, despite the chasm between them, the desire still smoldered in the depths of Anders’ being: untamed, unaltered...  

It had been too long since the last time the Mitchell couple had pleased each other… far too long. And yet, even if several moons had passed since their last intercourse, it had left a lasting impression in Anders’ senses, like a brand on his skin. Anders’ hand moved to the front of his kilt almost by its own volition. He wanted to touch himself, even if he knew it would only bring temporary relief. Nothing would satisfy him but John. The knowledge that he was probably the last thing John wanted added an additional layer of frustration.

John sat in the wooden tub and Zeb was pouring water on his head carefully, soaking the raven curls. The healer was blocking much of Anders’ view on his husband’s tantalizing body. He had seen enough already. If John discovered he had pried on a private conversation, he would never trust him again, no matter how many times would he invite him for dinner.

A rather embarrassing erection under his kilt, Anders took the stairs down to the dining hall. He would have to take care of that “little problem” later. In the meantime, he had to get rid of it.  On the ornamental frieze in the staircase were carved the names of all the clan lords who had possessed the Gull’s Nest and, for Anders, reviewing his family tree did the trick. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he had his instincts under control.

Outside the dining hall, the flat line of the ocean attracted the sun like a magnet. The night would cover the surface in less than half an hour. In the dining hall, Gaïa had already lightened the candles on the chandelier.

She gave him a quick glance. “At such short notice, I did what I could, but I’m afraid it won’t be a five course meal.”

“I don’t care,” Anders replied. “I just want His Highness to sit and talk to me.”  

He went to the alcohol cabinet and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey from a decanter. He leant against the wall and sipped from his glass as he watched Gaïa give a quick polish to the silverware.

There was still something youthful about her… youthful but not innocent. She was too intelligent and aware of how the world worked for that. Had she lost the last remains of her innocence when she had betrayed Axl and given herself to him? Anders knew better than to ask her.

The whisky burnt its way down his throat.

The servant was pretending to ignore his presence, but he could tell she was aware of his scrutiny.

When she exited the dining hall to go and fetch some bread, Anders was left alone with his musings.  

 

 

 

How upset would John be if he knew his husband had a common past with the young woman? Perhaps he would not give a damn. After all, it was no secret that before their marriage, Anders used to enjoy the pleasure of the flesh with multiple partners. However, he was not keen on testing that theory. John’s reactions were too unpredictable nowadays.

A high-pitched scream came from across the hall.  “Maaaaaaaaaaa!”

Moïra came running into the dining room, but in her hurry, she bumped into Anders who happened to be standing in the way.

When something hit the back of his legs with the force of a galloping foal, Anders spilled a few drops of whiskey on his vest, but he was still able to put the glass down before anything worse could happen.

The little girl looked up at Anders, eyes wide, in shock and pondering if this mishap was worth crying for. Anders realized that his own reaction was going to weigh a lot in the balance. Trying not to overthink it, he picked her up in his arms. “It’s alright,” he told her, in a tone of voice so soft and appeasing that he surprised himself. At this point, he was capable of great deeds to avoid a tantrum.

She was a beautiful child. It hadn’t struck him before. She had her mother’s eyes; pensive and wistful. He couldn’t escape the golden brown gaze now and it stirred that strange trouble inside him once again. The shape of her nose, albeit familiar, failed to conjure the image of Axl in his mind. The image should have been there, but it wasn’t.  

Moïra’s need to cry was slowly fading away. Tentatively, she reached for his face. He didn’t try to evade it when she pressed her little hand over one of his eyes, forcing him to shut it.

“Sad,” she stated.

“Yes,” he replied, at a loss of anything else to say.

She appeared to understand more about him than he would ever do about her. She freed his eye and, as they stared at one another some more, they got to a kind of mutual acknowledging, though Anders couldn’t exactly describe the nature of it.

Rapid footsteps approached from the adjacent room. “Moïra!” a man’s voice called.

“Someone’s looking for you,” Anders whispered to the little girl. She pulled a face.

Stuart was breathless, but relieved that Anders had caught the little runaway.  “Oh… there she is! Thank you, Your Grace.”

At the same moment, Gaïa was coming back with a bottle of wine in one hand and two baskets of sliced bread balanced on her other arm. She poorly hid her displeasure at the sight of her daughter in Anders’ arms. There was something else in her expression: embarrassment, worry? Did she think he was going to hurt her?

“I’m sorry. I was keeping an eye on the little rascal, but she managed to sneak away,” Stuart explained to the handmaiden.

“She does that all the time,” Gaïa sighed, putting the food and bottle down. She walked up to Anders to get her daughter back. “You’re going to get into real trouble one day if you keep on misbehaving,” she scolded the toddler, reaching out for her.

Instead of complying, Moïra locked her arms around Anders’ neck. She refused to budge, to his utter surprise and also to Gaïa’s whose discontent turned into something like fear. The little girl was holding on to him like a barnacle to a rock. The servant had to untangle her child from Anders’ torso as the little girl whined and protested.

When Moira finally gave up, Gaïa promptly put her under Stuart’s care. “Would you be so kind as to put her to bed, please? I’m not done yet with the dinner and the tables for their Highnesses.”   

The child waved at a still astounded Anders while Stuart was carrying her away. He felt an odd pinch in the vicinity of his heart. He bottled up the sudden, incomprehensible emotion and forgot about it almost as soon as it occurred.

His rational mind, set off by the exercise of reading and naming the Johnson ancestors earlier in the stairs, started nudging him toward a quest for answers. The name Moïra was a rare one. And since the second he had heard it, it did ring a bell. He had been wondering why his mind was always coming back to that matter. As he retrieved his whiskey glass from the top of the cabinet, he finally tied the loose ends.

He knew, or rather, he had learnt by heart that name a long time ago, when his step-mother was making him study John’s family tree. Lady Moïra Douglas was one of the daughters of Lord Richaìrd Douglas: John’s grandfather on his mother’s side.

The sun had set and the darkness had taken over the corners of the dining hall. Gaïa was coming and going. She lit more candles and was folding some table towels when Anders asked her: “Why did you call your daughter ‘Moïra’?”

She didn’t answer at first and went on with her task. After all the towels were folded, she chose to feed his curiosity. “My mother was lady-in-waiting for a noblewoman who was bearing that name.”

“Moïra Douglas.”

“Yes.”

“She’s my husband’s aunt,” Anders pointed out, “the sister of my mother-in-law.”

Gaïa nodded. “The members of Clan Douglas are known for their beauty, but my mother told me that Lady Moira was the most beautiful creature that ever walked the earth. She was a formidable archer as well. She had a good heart, but unfortunately, just like her siblings, she had bad lungs. She fell ill and the spirit of death reaped her soul when she was only twenty-four. My mother loved her a lot and mourned her for a long time.”

Anders remembered what John had told him about his mother: afflicted with the same lung condition as her sibling. His throat constricted. If Lady Ann died in Brastàl’s jail before John could see her again, he would never forgive Anders.  

“She had had a lot of suitors in her early adulthood, many marriage proposals,” Gaïa continued, “but she refused every one of them. Some would say it’s ironic that someone who’s so blessed by the spirit of beauty would refuse to be loved. In truth, I admire it.”

Anders uttered a thoughtful hum as he poured himself more whiskey from the decanter. “I’m not sure I’m one to decide what’s ironic when it comes to love,” he observed. “I’ve never looked for it. And yet it ambushed me and pounced when I least expected it.”

“With his Lordship?” Gaïa asked. She peeked at him from above her shoulder. “I mean, he’s the one who you fell in love with?” It was the first time she showed any sign of interest in him or his life.

He emptied the whole content of his glass in one gulp. His voice was hoarse when he confirmed her assumption. “Aye.”

She had a small, humorless snigger. “Well, it seems that the whole heart business didn’t turn out great for neither of us.”

“I haven’t thrown the towel in just yet,” Anders objected, and he decided that this declaration was worth another refill of whisky.

“If I chose to name my child ‘Moïra’ it was because I hope she’ll make the same wise choice Lady Douglas did,” Gaïa explained. She carefully placed the plates and the wine cups on the tablecloth. “Love, as it turns out, is a deceitful, disappointing and hurtful thing. I hope my girl will be spared from its claws.”

It was a very pessimistic view of the world, but at the same time, in regard of his own situation Anders tended to agree. Now was not a good moment to give in to disillusion and fatalism, however. He had to believe that the man who once claimed to love him could be reasoned with, on the ground of that previous mutual affection.

He took a look at the disposition of the table and decided he didn’t like it. “You’ve put our places at the far ends,” he remarked. The whole length of the table separated the chairs where he and John would sit throughout the dinner.

“Yes. It’s the usual places for the masters of the castle,” Gaïa justified herself.

“I imagine. But it wouldn’t serve my purpose for us to sit so far away from each other.”

The servant’s eyes narrowed. She had now to move the plates and the silverware she had taken quite some time to arrange, but she carefully abstained from any comment and only executed the order without a word. Stepping out of his usual character, Anders took upon himself to help her. For a reason unknown to him, he did not want to vex her.

When they were done, Anders deemed himself happy with the new disposition. He’d be facing his husband, with only the width of the table between them. The whole thing had to be well thought-out if he wanted it to go as planned.

Gaia brought from the kitchen a steaming pot of soup, made with the first spinach leaves growing in the garden, along with the nettle Stuart had collected behind the stables and some wrinkled potatoes from last year. There were also bread, butter, wine, desalted pork, hard-boiled eggs and also a dessert in a terracotta jar. It wasn’t a feast, but it would be enough.

The only important thing missing was the main guest. It was half past eight already and John had not shown up yet.

Anders sat by the fire place, with his whisky for only companion, watching the clock on the mantelpiece, trying to convince himself that half an hour wasn’t that late. With his physical condition, one could expect John would take twice the time to get prepared, even with Zeb’s help. Half an hour wasn’t dramatic.

At twenty to nine Anders started fidgeting.

At nine o’clock, he was pacing in the dining hall.

At twenty past nine, Gaia asked her master if she should start clearing the table since it was late already, but her suggestion was met with hostility. She then offered to put the pot of soup near the fire to keep it warm and Anders gave a curt nod in agreement.  

Conscious that his hope and stubbornness was verging on something more pathetic, Anders still wouldn’t  lay down his arms and admit his defeat. John could still show. He would show. He had to.

At ten, Anders was slumped into an armchair he had pulled in from the sitting room. The decanter was nearly empty.

The beams from the ceiling above his head curved dangerously, as if the house was going to fall down on his head. The beams were the frame of a ship and Anders was watching it sway and pitch from underwater.

His glass had started slipping slowly from his hand. Slumber was beckoning him toward surrender. At some point, he would have to resign himself to go to bed.

The click and the scrape from the latch and the creak of unoiled hinges was a faraway echo that he didn’t notice at first, but the door did open and John appeared.

Anders couldn’t prevent the glass from escaping him. It fell and shattered on the floor.

Ignoring the mess, Anders stepped on his feet. His head was spinning and he had to put a hand over the backrest of the armchair to keep himself steady. He had already stumbled on the drunk side of tipsy.

John stood awkwardly in the doorframe, rubbing the back of his neck. For a second, Anders was afraid he would turn on his heels and leave.

“Please, come in,” Anders invited him. “Take a seat.”

Despite Zeb’s efforts to tame the wilderness that was John’s hair, a few curls escaped at the temples and went curling down his forehead. The healer’s hairdressing skill would not win any contest, but he had neatly trimmed John’s beard to a light stubble and made his master more than presentable.

This time, John was not trying to hide his amputated arm under the folds of a large coat. It simply rested across his chest where Zeb had secured it with fabric bands. He was wearing a white shirt with lace cuffs. Gold and green patterns adorned his embroidered vest. Zeb must have found the garments in one of the old trunks in the attic.

It wasn’t exactly fashionable, not that Anders truly noticed. All he could see was a reminder that he had married an exceptionally winsome man – one of a kind. If Moïra Douglas had been, like Gaïa claimed, the most gorgeous creature to ever live, her nephew was her proud successor.

The lustful urge from earlier snuck up on Anders again, but this time it wasn’t only about sex. He was still very much in love with that proud, pig-headed, impulsive, emotional young man that he still called his with a certainty he was perhaps not allowed to have.

Anders went over to the table and pulled a chair for his spouse.

John hesitated, but he sat down nonetheless. He gave a disturbed glance at Anders’ fingers when, during the process of pushing the chair, they landed over his arm for a split second.

The touch was brief, but the blond man couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He would have left his hand there for longer if John didn’t look so uneasy.

“I thought you would not come,” Anders admitted when he reached his own chair.  

“I thought so too, but Zeb convinced me.”

Anders unfolded a towel and placed it over his lap. “Remind me to give him that raise he keeps badgering me about. I think he earned it this time.”

This clumsy attempt at humor was lost on John. The younger man kept his eyes down and didn’t touch anything on the table.

Anders rang the bell to call Gaïa who arrived promptly.  She seemed surprised to see John sitting at the table. Anders couldn’t blame her. He himself had started giving up any hope to see him show up.

She brought the soup and Anders poured some into his bowl.

The servant offered some to John but he declined. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“Me neither, to be honest,” Anders stepped in, “but please humor me. At least, do it for Gaia. She’s put a lot of effort into this.”

John gazed at him, disconcerted. Was it so unusual for Anders to show any kind of gratefulness? Then, John’s eyes crossed Gaia’s and the look that passed between them was peculiar. Anders wasn’t paranoid enough to think that a conspiracy was afoot, but for a short moment, he had the disagreeable impression everybody was aware of something and that he was the only one kept in the dark.

He soon chased that feeling to focus on the real matter at hand. He couldn’t afford to be distracted.

John finally accepted a bit of the spinach pottage and Anders dismissed Gaia for the rest of the night, arguing that they could fend for themselves. She gladly hung up her apron and took her leave.

The couple started eating in silence. It would have been unrealistic to expect John to start a conversation. It was doubtful he even wished to be there to begin with.

Anders was supposed to be a man of words, but his tutelary spirit was of no help tonight. “ _I’ll eat another spoonful and then I’ll say something_ ,” he told himself. But then, half of the content of his bowl had disappeared and nothing had been said yet.

To chase some of the discomfort that was piling up in the space between them like a thick layer of dust, Anders mustered the courage to clear his throat. “Zeb says you’re making progress. How are you doing these days?”

The response was dry enough to make the air brittle. “I have an arm missing and everybody I care about is either dead or imprisoned: this is how I’m doing.”

It stung. “Everybody?” Anders asked.

John’s shoulders sagged. Was he ashamed for having said this, or he did just not want to take the bait?   

 _“Do you still care for me, even a little?”_ This was the real question, but Anders couldn’t bring himself to utter those words. He did not want to sound like a lost child. He put his spoon down and considered just leaving the hall and going upstairs without a look back.

“No…. not everybody…” John muttered, so low Anders wasn’t sure if he had even heard it right. A hard frown drew John’s eyebrows so close they were almost touching. He stood from his chair slowly and bore his gaze into Anders’. “But that doesn’t mean I can get over what you did. I’ve been trying, but I can’t. You’ve abandoned our people- abandoned them all of them to their fate!”

Chafed, Anders grabbed the towel on his lap and got up as well, thrusting his chair back. “I know! You already said that, multiple times!” He threw the towel on the table. “I’m sorry if I fail to see how destroying our marriage is going to fix that!” He regretted having given in to anger so quickly, but he could not help it. John’s insistence on blaming him constantly was infuriating.

“What do you want me to say, Anders?”

“I don’t want you to say anything,” he yelled. “I want you to sit down and hear me out for a change!”

Taken aback by the strength of Anders’ wrath and conviction, John’s face paled a little and he felt compelled to obey, not that his spouse would give him any choice.  

“What you don’t seem to grasp is that your mother, your friends, your ex-lover Carl, they’re all well aware you’re a bloody piece of work,” Anders stated. “And yet, they were as desperate as I was to see you come back alive from that campaign. They were willing to help me escape the castle in order to achieve that, even if Duncan was at the door. They didn’t say: ‘oh no, please, Anders, don’t leave us alone here’. What they last told me was: ‘if there is anybody who can drag John’s stubborn arse back here, it’s you’. They were ready to take that course of action to save you. I was. We all were.”

He would have liked for John to manifest that he was at least listening, but the younger man’s downcast eyes were evading him.

“But maybe you’re right,” Anders went on. “Maybe I should have stayed put. I should have fought Duncan off and remarry like Mikkel wanted me to! I heard that Lady Keir’s cousin Sir Mathias is still available: a young and pretty little thing of nineteen years old – with plump lips and constantly horny. Perhaps I’m missing out and I should have put that in my bed when I had the opportunity. Would you have preferred that? Damned gods! Maybe I’d even be the Great Lord as we speak!”

He had not failed to notice how John’s hand was now grasping the edge of the table rather tightly.

 

 

“No. I wouldn’t have preferred that,” he groaned.

Anders let himself fall back down into his chair. “I thought as much.”

Maybe it was petty of him to try and rile John up, but it was the only way to know if his husband still cared.

John was brooding, shoulders hunched. Since the younger man gave no sign that he wished to participate in the conversation any further, Anders casually filled his plate with all the food within his reach, just to occupy himself.   

He ate, despite the churn in his stomach. He was well into the process of emptying his plate, when John lifted his head and spoke. “I don’t want to imagine you married to someone else, but if that was the price to pay to ensure that those I love were alive and well, I would have paid it, even from beyond the grave.”

Anders swallowed a chunk of bread and rinsed it down with some wine. “This is all hypothetical, because I’ve made another choice. And I see no point in bringing up the past. You’re going to have to accept that neither of us can change anything about it. Then, maybe, we’ll be able to move forward.”

John looked at him from behind his stray curls, his eyes teary and sorrowful. “I find it difficult.”

“I know.”

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven times.

“You should eat some more,” Anders encouraged him. “Zeb always makes a step-mother of himself, complaining that you’re still too thin.” He gestured toward the jar that Gaïa had left at John’s right side on the table. “What’s for dessert?”

John opened the jar and sampled a piece of the mysterious content. “Candied almonds,” he announced, “your favorite...”

At once, Anders was in cold sweat. “Put that down!” he ordered, already up on his feet, the urgency of the situation making his voice gruff.  

John had not anticipated such a violent reaction to an innocent candy. “What?”

The sugary smell of the almonds came to Anders nostrils, inducing an instant nausea. “I said: put that down! Don’t eat it!” In the span of a heartbeat, he had already crossed the space separating him from John and had snatched the almond from his hand.

“Wh- What did you do that for? What’s wrong with you?” John exclaimed. He tried to grab the jar, but Anders was faster:  

“They’re poisoned! They’re fucking poisoned!”   

“What are you speaking about? These are from the kitchen, who on earth could have poisoned them?”

Under John’s astonished eyes, Anders hurried to the fireplace like a man possessed, stepping in the broken glass as he went. He threw the whole thing, the almonds along with the jar, into the fire. He was shaking, his breath hectic, as if in the middle of a nightmare.  John was stunned and speechless, but he would not remain that way for long. Soon, he would demand explanations.  

Anders was not ready to give any. “Forget it! This whole thing: this dinner, it was a mistake,” he declared, determined to storm out before this could get even more embarrassing.  

For an anemic man who had recently been amputated a limb, John was surprisingly fast. He caught up on his spouse and blocked the doorway before Anders could slip away. “No! I won’t let you get out of here until you tell me what is going on.”   

“There is nothing going on!”

“I’m a lot of things, Anders, but I’m not an imbecile!”

Defeated, Anders forced his trembling hands to be steady by clasping them together. “No, you’re not. Never been,” he conceded. He let John lead him back to the armchair by the hearth. In a concerned gesture, something rare these days, John refilled his glass of wine and brought it to him when he sat down.  

After he had drained the wine to the last drop, Anders decided to talk. “When I was still in Brastàl, a few weeks after you left, I received a bag of almonds and a note, supposedly from you, saying that they were a present. I had my doubts. I suspected the note was a forgery, so I fetched rats from the jail and I gave them the almonds, just to test my theory.” Recalling those events was enough to make him nauseous again. “An hour later, the rats were all dead. I sent the remaining almonds and the rats to Master Sileas. He said the treats had been laced with hemlock seeds.”

As he expected, John’s lips had a twitch of sadness when the name of Master Sileas was mentioned, but for now, his worry was stronger than the grief. “Did you get to find who sent them to you?”

“No. Carl and I investigated, but we didn’t find the culprits. From what I know now, it must have been members of the Scarecrow.”

John was standing between him and the flames. A sort of fierceness could be read on his face, like the first black clouds of an upcoming tempest. “What’s the Scarecrow?”

“A secret society of witch hunters. They’re led by Duncan, if the rumors are true. Their goal is to cleanse the North Hills from the old gods’ worshippers and sorcerers. They are targeting me as their number one enemy.”

“Since when do you know about all that?” John asked. His voice was a tone darker.  

“After you and I escaped from Carraig, we ended up in that lumber shack in the middle of the forest, remember?”

John nodded slowly.

“We argued so I went into the woods to cool off,” Anders continued. “I stopped in an abandoned saw mill and that’s when I overheard a conversation between three men making a campfire outside. They were speaking about Duncan, his plans for the country and also about the Scarecrow. That’s the first time I heard the name.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, John was making a genuine attempt at controlling his rising anger. Despite his efforts, he was losing the battle against his temper. “Why is it only now that I’m hearing about this!? There is a secret society planning your assassination and you don’t think to inform me?” He was putting the puzzle pieces together, and that didn’t help him keep his calm. “The destroyed bridge outside the city, our burnt boat, the dead turtledove on our doorstep the morning after our wedding night,” he enumerated, “they’ve been targeting us for a while!

“Yes,” Anders confirmed. He looked down at his glass and regretted it was empty.

“Fuck, Anders! They could be watching the Gull’s Nest right now! When were you planning on telling me?”

“Soon, before we would leave for Aklànd, but it’s not like we’ve spoken much in the last weeks.”

“How could you have hidden it from me?” John reproached, raising his voice even more. “I thought it was the end of the lies! I thought: ‘there is surely nothing worse that he could be hiding from me’. How wrong I was!”

Expressionless, Anders left his chair and got rid of his glass on the whisky cabinet before he left the hall. He was not going to stay there and let John bite his head off. He had said everything he had to say and was going to bed.

The sitting room was submerged in darkness, but Anders knew the way to the South tower’s staircase fairly well. The thing he had not expected was for John to chase after him. For the younger man, the discussion was far from over.

“How do you want me to trust you after that?” he told Anders off, following only a few steps behind. “Every time I think you finally told me everything, there are more layers of lie underneath the surface! What else are you keeping from me?”

Anders had nearly reached the door to the staircase when John grabbed his arm, preventing him from touching the handle. Within a second, the shorter man was pinned to the wall and it knocked the air out of his lungs. It wasn’t because the gesture was brutal. In fact, John had made sure he would not hit the wall too briskly. It was rather because having his husband’s body pressing him against the hard surface had this effect on him.

A faint moonbeam was coming from the windows, but John’s eyes were so dark Anders couldn’t distinguish the pupil from the iris. “What else are you keeping from me?”  

A smirk twisted Anders’ face. “You really want to know? You’re not going to like it.” The black desire to provoke his spouse was back.

This passionate anger, it was better than the silence of the past days. They had wedded under the spirit of fire and they both needed that: to have something burning between them, instead of standing in the cold ashes of their relationship.

“I stayed at Somerled temple for two days after I left Brastàl. There was a priestess there. Her name was Edna. She wanted me… and to be honest, I wanted her as well. She was wet and ready for me, hanging to my neck and begging me to fuck her. I let her bring me to her bed-”   

“I knew it! I fucking knew it!” John shouted in a dry sob of rage. He hit the wall with the side of his fist, just next to his husband’s head. He must have injured his hand in the process, because he uttered a sound of pain from the back of his throat.

Legally, what Anders had done wasn’t an adultery, because the lady was a priestess, but the legality of it didn’t make it hurt any less.   

“There! Are you properly angry now?”  Anders taunted him -- a reckless bravado, giving how furious John was. He had cut through the snake bite, hoping the venom would bleed out.

If he wished to make John jealous, it wasn’t so much out of revenge for having been called a liar and a coward. He wanted to trigger his husband’s possessive streak. Anders’ erection was back, and neither the roughness of the woolen kilt or the hard pressure of the wall could discourage it. It was the first time in what seemed to be forever that he had John’s body so close – that he could feel his hard hips and the bulge of his sex through his clothes. He yearned for John to reaffirm his rightful claim on him.

He didn’t doubt that John’s nights were haunted by a whole army of ghosts. But they were dead and gone and he was there, alive and warm. He refused to be outmatched by them.

“You keep disrespecting me and my clan,” John thundered. He grasped a handful of his kilt and bunched it up Anders’ right thigh. “I should strip you from our colors. I should rip that kilt off of you.”

“By all means!” Anders challenged him. “But you have to be honest with yourself; is this the real reason why you want to rip it off of me?”  For good measure, he grinded his hips to his husband’s. He was satisfied to feel John’s body responding.  “Come on, Mitchell! Fuck me with all the strength of your anger,” Anders goaded him again. “I know that’s what you want!”

John was clearly not in the mood to be pushed around. Anders found himself manhandled and pressed, face first, to the stone wall.

For the fraction of a second, Anders had a flashback of his encounter with the thieves on his way to Somerled Temple. He had come very close to falling victim of a gang rape that day, in that ruined house near the road. It made the hair on his arms stand with fear and disgust.

He found some reassurance in the knowledge that no matter how furious John could be, he would never hurt him intentionally.

“Hm, yes, that’s more like it,” Anders rasped when he felt John’s fingers grip the wool of his kilt again.

“I’ve had enough of your insolence,” John groaned. His breath was heavy and hot on the back of Anders’ neck.

“Good! Make me pay for it! Do it! What the fuck are you waiting for?”

But John didn’t do anything. Anders could tell from the hardness that rested on the small of his back that they were both equally aroused by the intensity of their quarrel. But he knew his husband enough to figure that there was shame and conflicted emotions coming with the bodily reaction. For the young lord, sex with his spouse had always been a sacred act; a physical union blessed by the spirits. He was reluctant to defile it by succumbing to it in a moment of anger.

Anders wanted to show him that no matter what, this desire was stronger than the resentment -- stronger than the circumstances and the grudges they held against each other.  “Come on!” he urged him without thinking. “You wouldn’t be the first to try and force me!”

He knew he had made a mistake when he felt John’s every muscle go rigid. “What do you mean?” he asked abruptly. The remark had caught him off guard.

Anders wanted to kick himself. Having confessed to this by accident was much worse than revealing his dalliance with Edna. Now, he was this thirty-one year old man who hadn’t been able to defend himself against a bully boy not much older than eighteen. He was dirty. He was weak. He hated it.  “What do you care?” he defended himself in a strangled voice. “Fuck me, or let me go!”

John chose the latter. He released his husband and staggered back until he could find purchase on a nearby piece of furniture.

The expression Anders expected to find on John’s face when he turned around was the one of revulsion. He thought the other man would be repulsed, but all he could see was shock on his partner’s fine facial traits.

Anders could have retracted his statement, but it was too late. John’s mind was fast-tracking as he measured all the implications of these words.  

Not waiting for the initial shock to turn into something else he would not be able to deal with, Anders ran for the door. John was too stunned to go after him this time.

***

 

Anders was still shaking like a leaf when he locked himself up in the library. He had chosen this room to take shelter on the spur of the moment. He hoped it would be the last place where John would look for him. _“So much for not looking like a coward.”_

This was the only unheated room of the second floor. He could have at least lit a candle and taken a book to distract himself, but he didn’t want anybody to see the light under the door. He sat there in the dark and in the cold, only cloaked by his own shame and frustration.

Sadly for his plans, he hadn’t married a dimwit. Hence, it didn’t take long for John to locate him.

After he had tried the door and found it locked, John knocked two times. “Anders. I know you’re in there. Come out. We must talk.”

Perhaps Anders should have been rejoiced by the fact he had finally gotten John to speak to him. He was even the one currently asking for a conversation. But the circumstances made it more of a set-back than a success.

John called his name again, softer this time, though in an almost imperceptible manner.

It prompted Anders to stand from the bench, but he stayed there staring at the door, unable to get his feet to move toward it.

Eventually, John’s footsteps receded and faded.

It had never been a question in Anders’ mind whether he was ever going to tell John about the incident with the thieves or keep it a secret. He had bottled up the memory and buried it so deep within himself that he thought he would be able to pretend for the rest of his days that it never happened. Why would he ever feel the need to tell his husband about something that had never occurred anyway?  He had fooled himself in thinking it wouldn’t resurface.

The thieves had not raped him in the end, but they had undressed him, humiliated him, threatened to kill his pet fox under his eyes, had looked at him and treated him like he was a piece of meat. They would have slaughtered him once they’d be done with him, he never doubted it. Completely defenseless, he had truly feared for his life. When Gus had shoved him to the wall, he had envisioned himself lying in the pool of his own blood, his legs soiled with semen. Even now, it made him sick to the stomach. This was the main issue with bottling up memories and emotions: it kept them fresh.

Talking about it now, with John, it would mean having to relive it. He wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to avoid this ordeal now that the secret was out.

An hour passed. Or two? Maybe even more. The moon had crossed three windowpanes before disappearing from Anders’ view. The break of dawn was nearing when he finally left the chill and false safety of the library, a candle holder in hand to light his way.

The castle was as silent as a cavern.

Thinking that everyone, including John, was asleep, Anders headed for his own room  with the intention of going to bed and seeking a short hour of tormented sleep.  

His heart skipped a beat when he walked in.

Someone was sitting on his bed. The thought of an intruder in the castle made him reach for the dagger on his belt. But the silhouette waiting for him in the shadows was familiar enough for Anders to renounce to draw his weapon.

He put the candle down on the bedside table near Mikkel’s old bed. He would probably never get to know for how long John had been waiting for him.

“Who did it?” John asked gravely and without preamble. “Who tried to force you?” He had had plenty of time to ruminate. In his imagination, the many scenarios of what could have happened to his husband had amounted to something ugly.   

In a hurry to get it done with, and despite his reluctance, for the third time tonight Anders let the cat out of the bag. “After I left Brastàl, I had found refuge in one of the ruins of the abandoned clachan on the road to Somerled.  I encountered some poachers turned highwaymen. They cornered me and stole my clothes. The others encouraged the younger to have his way with me to get revenge on you. Apparently, you had imprisoned some members of their gang.”

“Did they hurt you?” John immediately wished to know. “Where did they touch you?”  

“They didn’t have time to do anything to me. Madraid Aileen and the priestesses rescued me.”

John flinched, the same way he had flinched when Anders had mentioned Master Sileas earlier. The pain of their loss still affected him deeply even though he never voiced it in front of Anders anymore. John’s shoulders dropped nonetheless, the weight of a heavy dread had lifted from him.  

He rose from the bed. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had stayed in Brastàl.”

The reproach stung Anders to the quick. “You mean that I deserve it? I deserved to be threatened with rape!?”  

John stepped into the halo of light coming from the candle. “That’s not what I mean and you know it! Those poachers better stay hidden deep in the forest while they can, because if I ever catch them, they’re going to pay for what they tried to do to you.” He motioned to exit the bedroom, but Anders spoke up to hold him back.

“You’re leaving already, after you waited all night for me to show up?” He wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish by asking that question. He had made sure to avoid John after his hasty departure from the dining hall, but now he dreaded to be left alone with his own thoughts. It suddenly seemed worse than having to face the tension between him and his spouse.

John rubbed his eyes. “I think that’s enough for one day,” he stated. “Just tonight, I learnt that you’ve been nearly poisoned and almost raped.”

“Well, I had to keep myself busy while you were gone,” Anders jested.

The look John gave him was sharper than a blade. “That’s why you felt the need to distract yourself in a priestess’ arms, I presume.”

Anders sat down at the foot of Mikkel’s bed.  “Actually, I had not told you yet what happened after the priestess brought me to her bed.”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” John declared. He made a few steps toward the opened door, but he stopped when Anders said:  

“I think you do, actually.”  

Now, he was assured he had John’s full attention. "She did bring me to her bed. And I must confess there was some kissing involved, but I soon cut it short. I didn’t fuck her. Do you want to know why?”

John didn’t attempt to guess.

“Because I still believed you weren’t dead, despite what a lot of people told me. Nothing prevented me from giving that girl what she wanted, and I still chose to be loyal to you. You can say anything you want regarding my morality, John, but the fact remains that the sacrifices I’ve made for you, I never made those for anyone else.”

An already heavy silence lingered and Anders read doubts between the lines on his husband’s forehead.  

“You don’t believe me, do you?”  

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “You’ve lied before. I think I’m allowed some skepticism.”

“I’m not concealing anything from you anymore. Everything’s on the table now.” Anders made a gesture, as if showing him the metaphorical table.

“You told me everything? Just like you told me about you and Gaïa?”

Anders frowned. “Gaïa? I slept with her on only one occasion, and it was way before you and I were married! I must say I’m surprised she even told you about this.”

“She didn’t have to. Now if you’ll excuse me, I would like to go to bed.”  

He accepted that Anders walked him to his room.

Weighing in mind the cryptic insinuations, avowals, reproaches and the expressions of pent-up desire, Anders wasn’t sure what assessment to make of the emotional night they just spent. In spite of everything he had undisclosed, he couldn’t tell if they had moved toward a possible reconciliation or if, on the contrary, they had stepped back from each other.

As per the deal he had made with John, Anders abstained from entering the master bedroom, but before his husband could retreat inside, he asked him one last question.

“What happened to us, John? Why does it have to be like that? We were lovers once, in case you don’t remember.”  

John bent his neck and Anders could only see the outlines of his profile against the dim, grey light of dawn.  “I do remember,” he said, and with that he was gone.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope to hear from you :)


	5. Out of the Thickets and into the Thorn Bushes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An immense amount of thanks to my dear beta reader. :)

 

Late one afternoon, Anders was strolling down the walkway, on the part of the curtain wall that enclosed the garden. The sea was restless and foaming at the mouth. The sky, a giant lid, kept the ocean boiling underneath. The stratus clouds in consecutive layers created a gradient from white to dark grey.  

Anders only interrupted his walk when a tall column of smoke on the horizon caught his attention. It was too far away for him to be able to distinguish the point of origin.

A lot of things could have started that fire : a lantern in a barn, perhaps, knocked over by accident: a simple mishap. But the sight awoken something in Anders: a sense of alarm and thrill. The war was still raging. People were fighting in the south, in the former Ferguson land, and also in the East, where the clans had engaged in a civil war after Duncan’s usurpation. In the meantime, he was stuck at the Gull’s Nest: an undesirable guest at his husband’s pity party.

He craved for some action and purpose. Ty, Axl and Olaf were in Aklànd, undoubtedly having more fun than he did. It was time he went back to where he was born.

Zeb was adamant John needed more rest before he could handle spending three days travelling on dirty roads… Meanwhile, Anders was forced to stay put and wait while the North Hills were burning around him.

There was another bothering matter. After their last dinner together, Anders figured he had to give his husband a few days to digest everything that had been said that night, but the first moon of the spring was nearing its end and they were nowhere near a true reconciliation. John remained secluded in his room, depressed and apathetic. He slept his days away. At night, he spent hours staring into the fire. Their relationship had reached a dead end.  At best, they had gotten to a stage of passive truce.

While John enclosed himself in dead silence, Anders strived for life.

Child screams and laughter fused from the garden below, as Anders was watching the smoke disperse over the hills. Stuart had installed a swing on a branch of the old willow tree a few days ago and Moïra was having the time of her life under Tiolam’s watchful eye. The wonderment she felt at the sensation of flying through the cool spring air had not worn off yet. Zeb was her appointed pushing slave. She tried to enroll Anders first, but Gaïa had interposed. Moïra was too young to understand how rank distinction worked.

Anders rubbed his freezing hands together and stuck them under his armpits.

Zeb came to the foot of the wall and shouted something to him, but Anders, lost in thought, didn’t understand the question. “Aye!” he shouted back, hoping it’d be enough to make the nuisance go away. It worked. Ten seconds later, Zeb was gone and Anders was left to resume his solitary reflections and his stroll down the walkway.

If he wished to travel to Aklànd, he would need means of transportation.

His steps led him to the garden gate that he left open as he crossed over to the courtyard. The coast was clear so he carried on through the opened area to the stables.

From the twenty stalls that used to house the Johnsons’ herd, only two were occupied, both by old farm horses: a mare and a gelding. The mare was half blind, one of her eyes veiled with a white film. He gave a gentle path to its soft nose before he moved on to inspect the other horse.

The male was in a better state. He remembered Stuart saying that he sometimes rented it to local farmers to plow their fields. The hooves were in good condition, as were the teeth. The legs didn’t present any suspicious swelling. This one, Anders reckoned, would be fit enough to carry him to Aklànd.

Docile, the bay horse let Anders pull himself up on its back. He could sense the excitement of the animal. The gelding was convinced it would be allowed to go out and gallop in the moor. This restlessness mirrored Anders’ own. He too was looking forward to being set free. It would have to wait, however. He still had things to sort out.

With a deep sigh, he let himself slip off the horse’s back and petted the black mane. “Soon, mate,” he told the gelding who closed its eyes in agreement.

He made sure the box’s door was latched and after a short reviewing of the saddlery, he went back to the house.

He had only just set foot inside when he heard clamoring and commotion in the hall, somewhere near the back doors opening on the garden. With a frown on his face, he followed the noises. He could not gather yet what was being said, or rather yelled. In normal circumstances, he’d mind his own business, but the yelling voice was Gaia’s, and for her to be so upset, something serious must have happened.  

“What were you thinking!?” the handmaiden was shouting to a visibly troubled Zeb. “I would not even trust him to look after a bag of barley and you let him watch Moïra?!”  

She was mad at Zeb, that bit was clear, but when Anders appeared, she became the embodiment of fury. She pounced, all claws out, and grabbed his coat with no care whatsoever for their gap in status. “Where is she!? Where is Moïra!?”

“I… I don’t know!” Anders tried to defend himself.

“Earlier in the garden, I asked you if you could watch her while I was fetching something to drink! You said ‘yes’! I heard you!” Zeb told Anders.

“Oh,” Anders realized. “That’s what it was about!”

Gaïa was close to spilling tears of rage. “You!” she accused the two men, pointing at them with a trembling finger. “If anything happens to her, I’m going to kill you both, you bastards!”

Anders grabbed her by the shoulders to try and steady her. “Calm down,” he ordered. “Where did you last see her?”

“She was on the swing under the willow tree when I went inside,” Zeb provided, addressing Anders. “You were the last one with her in the garden.”

“Well, I left as well, just after that. My fox was with her. Have you seen it?”

“No! We searched the whole house and Stuart combed the garden,” Gaïa despaired, her nails digging into Anders’ forearm. “Where could she be!? It’s not like she can stray to the courtyard or into the country, we always keep the garden gate closed!”

Something struck Anders at once. He gritted his teeth before he confessed. “I might have left the gate open on my way to the stables.”

“What!?” Gaïa screeched, her eyes bulging out. “She could be anywhere! She could have fallen into the ponds out of the walls, or over the cliffs!”

Anders increased his hold on her shoulders. “Let’s not think of the worst, shall we?” he urged her, though he could feel the effect of a fast increasing worry in his own wobbly legs.

As he said those words, Stuart barged in through the back doors. “I’ve checked the greenhouse and the tool shed: there’s no trace of her.”

This time, Gaïa couldn’t hold back her tears.She was hysteric with worry.

“Let’s be methodic about it,” Anders decided, taking things in hand. “There is a possibility that she strayed outside the garden. I didn’t see her on my way back from the stables, but it’s worth checking again. Stuart: you’ll search the courtyard, the stables and the old guardhouse. Zeb: you’ll look through the kitchens and the first floor again. You can also ask for His Highness’ help for the upper floors if he’s awake. Gaia and I will search the garden once more.”

The search party divided to accomplish their appointed task and Anders brought a pale and distressed Gaïa down the stairs outside. Her whole body was rigid, her nails still firmly planted in Anders’ forearm. “She likes to play hide-and-seek, but she knows she has to come out when I call her name,” Gaïa lamented.  

The swing under the willow tree gently swayed in the wind, empty.

They called Moïra’s and Tiolam’s names. They searched through every foot square of flowerbed and underbrush: behind every hedge and stone… without success.

All anger had left the handmaiden: there was only fear left. “What if we never find her?” she asked Anders. “What if something terrible happened to her?”

In a spontaneous gesture, Anders put his arms around the servant and drew her closer. “Nothing happened. I’m sure she’s alright. She’s feisty and resourceful… just like Tiolam… just like a fox.”

He held the desperate mother in a tight embrace, perhaps too intimate for a master with his servant. He had little care for keeping good appearances at the moment.

She let go and wept in the crook of his neck. She was so frail between his arms, like cracked glass on the verge of shattering. Would he be able to keep all the pieces together?

The servant cried until courage found its way back to her again. She pushed Anders away and wiped her face with the back of her sleeve.

“We’re going to find my daughter, and then, I’ll throttle you,” she stated.   

“Fine. Let’s find your wee _baìrn_ , and then you’ll murder me at your leisure,” Anders decided. Despite the attempt at humor, he knew he was in danger. Nothing exceeded the wrath of a mother.

Zeb came back, announcing that John and he had searched every corner of the castle, every cupboard and under each bed and found no trace of the little girl. Stuart returned from the courtyard with the same kind of news.

The sun was setting, Moïra was nowhere to be found and her mother was inconsolable.

Anders took a pair of gloves from his sporran and put them on. “I’m going to take a horse and have a look around down the road.”

It wasn’t the safest of plans. This was usually the hour of the day when the farmers walked to the village to go to the tavern. There would be people on the road who could identify Anders. Sundown was also the time when Duncan’s men came to take a look around and nail some new posters of Anders’ face on the door of the castle.

Before he headed to the stables, Anders made a chin gesture toward Zeb and Stuart.  “You two should walk around the outer bailey and near the ponds… just in case.”

Gaia was in no shape to help them. She was pale, trembling, out of her mind. Anders told her to go back inside and he headed to the stables.

 

***

 

It was the first time Anders saddled a horse in such a hurry. Even when he had left Brastàl in the middle of a thunderstorm after catching his young husband kissing another man, he hadn’t pulled the leather straps with quite the same haste.

He had been alone and scared so many times in his childhood that he wouldn’t wish that on any other. He had to bring Moïra back, safe and sound. He also began to fear for Tiolam. Where could she be?

The gelding shook its head with an unsure neigh when Anders mounted, sensing the tension in the rider’s body. Nonetheless, when Anders made his tongue click, the horse obediently trotted through the main gate.    

The wind was changing and rising. It rushed in from the North, forcing the long grass at the edge of the cliffs to bend to its rule. Anders didn’t want to imagine that the girl could have fallen over.  If it was so, the sea could carry her body for miles before it came ashore. It was too dreadful and horrible a scenario for him to even entertain.

The sky over the ocean was turning a brutal shade of violet. From his vantage point on horseback, Anders was determined to make good use of the last minutes of light.

Silhouettes of peasants carrying lanterns advanced through the moors, but they were far enough not to be able to recognize or identify Anders.

Further down the path was the ruins of old buildings, from the time the Gull’s Nest had a whole village just outside its walls. There were nothing left but shapeless heaps of stones and mortar, covered in briars and weeds. Protected from the wind by the remains of house walls, vegetation had grown into a thick labyrinth of shrubs and trees.

Anders dismounted and guided the horse as far as he could into the narrow passages.   

“Moïra!” he called. “Tiolam!”

On the first three attempts, he did not get a response. It’s only at the fourth call that he heard a familiar yelp, coming from somewhere in the thickets.

His heart picking up speed, he tied the horse to a branch and progressed further. “Tiolam!”

Another yelp guided him to an area where dense thorn bushes were clustered in what used to be the corner of a house.

From under the bushes emerged a fox, ears flat on its head and expressing her discontent by scolding Anders with high-pitched yapping. Tiolam seemed to be saying “ _what took you so long?”_

Anders dropped to his knees. It was dark already and it made it impossible to distinguish what could be hiding through the thorny branches. But sure enough, there was someone in there emitting some pitiful sniffling.

“Moïra?” he asked. “Are you there?”

“No,” said the little voice.

A wave of relief crashed down on his chest and shoulders, making them feel instantly a lot lighter.

“Are you hurt?” he pressed her.

“D’yes.”

“What happened?”

“The t’orns did booboo on my a’ms.”

Anders sighed. “You’re stuck in there, aren’t you?”

She hesitated, and then: “D’yes. Don’t ‘ell mommy.”

“That is something I cannot promise, darling,” Anders replied, “your mom can be quite scary when she is angry.”

Since she wasn’t able to come out on her own, he would have to go through the thorn bushes himself. He drew his dagger and started cutting the branches, ignoring the sting of the thorns that got to his skin despite the gloves. “Hold on,” he encouraged Moïra. “I’m coming to get you.”

As Anders was painstakingly making his way to the little girl, Tiolam had crawled back to the child to console her.

When Anders finally reached Moïra, after nearly half an hour of hard work, the night was truly settled in. He noticed that her skin was cold when he picked her up. The child was shaking under her light woolen tunic, teeth clattering. It would have been worse if Tiolam hadn’t been there to warm her up.

Anders wrapped her in the plaid part of his kilt the best he could. She had cried and her face was still wet when she pressed it to the side of his neck, just like her mother did moments earlier.  He let two generations of tears mix on his skin, unaware that this kind of thing left an indelible mark on someone.   

Knowing he would have a hard time mounting the horse with the child clinging to him for dear life, he grabbed the reins and took the direction of the house on foot since he wasn’t too far away.

It proved to be longer than he anticipated. The night was quite dark and it made following the road difficult. With Moïra grasping his coat and Tiolam leading the way, Anders battled with the mud until the more reliable soil of rocky moors replaced the swamp.

“I want mommy,” Moïra whined.

“We’re nearly there.”

They were forty yards away from the Nest’s gate when, his senses in alert, Anders stopped dead in his tracks. He took a look down the road behind him, squinting. He could have sworn he had seen light and heard horses. Sure enough, after a minute of careful observation, the dancing flickers of lanterns in the distance, too high above ground to be carried by people on foot, turned his dread into a real threat. Riders, at least two of them, were coming toward the castle.

“ _Shit_ ,” Anders cursed. He was not going to stay there waiting to learn if they were friends of foes.

He started running, as fast as his precious load allowed him.

The instant change in Anders’ behavior had Moïra burst into tears.   

The riders were getting closer and Anders prayed the spirits they had not seen them yet. He hurried through the courtyard gate, afraid to trip in the dark and hurt the child.

He had about a minute and a half before the riders would get in. He had to hide. Or else they’d find him, and then John. They’d both be killed.

He didn’t have enough time to think. Not enough time to find a clever plan, or even a good one. An acid burst of panic burnt the inside of his throat and drained his extremities from blood.

The stables. Getting rid of the horse.

He rushed there and pulled the gelding into its stall. Moïra was still whimpering and whining and she wouldn’t let Anders put her down. He couldn’t take the saddle off the horse.  

It was too late anyway. The distinctive sound of hooves on gravel came from the courtyard.

Slowly and quietly, Anders let himself slide down the side to the horse stall. He curled up against the wood panel and enveloped Moïra in his arms and clothes. He rocked the child, petting her hair in hope to comfort and calm her down. He had his other hand firmly grabbing the scruff of Tiolam’s neck. She was pricking her ears up and was whipping her tail like an angry cat.

The riders pulled their horses to a halt and dismounted. One, or several of them (Anders couldn’t tell) climbed the steps and knocked on the house’s front door.

“McIntyre!!!” a man’s voice called, urging Stuart to answer.

“We’re going to play a game,” Anders whispered to Moïra. “You’re good at hide and seek, huh? It’s the same thing, but we’re hiding together. The one who stays silent the longer wins. We have to be real quiet. You understand?”

He couldn’t see her expression, but he felt her nod, which reassured him.

“McIntyre!!!” the man yelled again.

The garden gate made its creaking heard and another set of footsteps added to the ones of the riders. “I’m here! What’s the matter?”

There was some shuffling and then: “Why is that woman crying?” the same rider asked. He had to be referring to Gaïa. She was the only woman around, and, giving the circumstances, the most susceptible to be currently crying.

“She just learnt that her cousin had been killed by the barbarians in the Fergusons’ land,” Stuart lied. “She’s shattered.”    

“Hm. Right…” His interlocutor was unconvinced.   

“What’s your business here, Ainsley?” Stuart’s voice betrayed more annoyance than anxiousness.

Anders knew the man named Ainsley. He thought he had recognized that voice.

The man had worked at the Nest for a few years, as a cook. When the Johnsons’ finances had started to dwindle, the family dismissed him. He had never been an especially talented cook anyway.

“I’ve led my own little investigation and I learned that Anders Mitchell has resurfaced,” Ainsley boasted. “The warden of Faoileag’s inn swears he saw a man that looked just like him. A couple gold pieces aided his failing memory. According to him, Anders Mitchell and some sailors rented a room at the inn one moon ago. We’ve searched the entire village, but I figured out that if someone was stupid enough to try and help him, it would be an old crazy bastard like you.”

There was no love-lost between the former cook and the gardener, to say the least.

“As you can see, Anders Mitchell isn’t there,” Stuart pointed out, “but if you want to check under my kilt, you’re more than welcomed.”

“I’d watch my tongue, if I were you,” Ainsley threatened, “and also your head while you’re at it. By Lord Duncan’s order, those who are caught sheltering a fugitive criminal will be decapitated for their crime.”  

Anders wondered how many of clan Johnson’s disgruntled former employees had chosen to join the other side and work for Duncan.

“It’s been years that any of the Johnsons set foot here,” the gardener lied. “They don’t care for the old house anymore. Lady Johnson always loathed it. It’s not as posh as what they have up there in Aklànd. I doubt I’ll ever catch a glimpse of them clansmen before I die of old age.”

“It means you wouldn’t mind if I took a look around, then, if you have nothing to hide…”

“By all means,” Stuart granted him permission.

There were more footsteps and to Anders’ horror they were coming straight to the stables. Moïra’s little heart was fluttering like the one of a baby bird fallen from its nest. Anders’ much bigger one was beating in unison.

Ainsley wouldn’t have the defiance of searching the house on the ground of mere suspicions, but he could well enter the stables, and that’s what he did.

Moira hid her face in the plaid of Anders’ kilt. She was too afraid to make a noise. His main concern was the fox. Tiolam could unwittingly betray their hiding spot in the horse stall. Anders was risking his own head and also John’s. If he was arrested, he doubted he would be able to escape this time. Nobody had that much luck. The fox squirmed in his grip. If he restrained her more than that, she would yelp in protest.

Anders touched the handle of his dagger. If he slit the fox’s throat, maybe he would be able to kill her swiftly, without a sound. At this point, it was her life or his. Fear was drumming in his skull, making him dizzy. The door of the stables opened. He had to act. It was his last chance, but he was unable to draw his weapon.

He had killed animals before and never taken any pleasure from it, no disgust either. But Tiolam was his loyal companion…. She was a birthweek present from John, given out of love and attachment… He couldn’t kill _that_.

Ainsley was in the stables, so close now Anders could hear the ruffling of straw under his boots. The halo of a lantern lightened the gelding’s stall. Fortunately the massive shape of the horse kept the man, the fox and the child in the shadows.

Anders was holding his breath. Tiolam shifted and she emitted a low growl.

The man didn’t seem to have heard it, but he found a bridled and saddled horse in a stall suspicious enough to make him call Stuart into the stables.

“Who saddled that horse? For what purpose?”

“When we opened the mail and learned that the handmaiden’s cousin was dead, she begged me to go to the village tonight and try to find more information as of where his ashes are kept,” Stuart explained. It was a good lie. Would it be good enough to make Ainsley drop the case?

“You saddled it, left it there and went back to the house? That seems odd to me,” he insisted. He had never been the sharpest knife in the box, but maybe working for Duncan had made him more astute.

Having to hide with a toddler and an unpredictable animal, the chances for Anders to be discovered were growing exponentially with every second that passed.

“Why is that odd?” Stuart asked, avoiding the trap. “When I saw how dark the night was, I went back to the handmaiden and tried to talk my way out of having to go to Faoileag tonight.”

Unexpectedly, some of the tension dissipated. “Women… am I right?” Ainsley sniggered. “So bloody demanding…”

Stuart laughed politely and Ainsley carried on his search of the stables. Then, he moved to the other end of the courtyard to check the old guardhouse.

Anders started breathing again.

Having found nothing, Ainsley and the other rider that accompanied him, decided to take their leave.

“If you ever learn Anders Mitchell’s whereabouts, you better notify me, or else you know what the consequences are.”

“We’ll be back soon with more men, to be sure you hadn’t lied to us,” added the other rider, before he and Ainsley took off.

Once he was sure they had left, Anders released Tiolam.

“Are you alright?” he questioned Moïra softly. She was no longer suffering from the cold. They had shared enough heat as they hid to warm her up.

“I won,” she replied with a small voice. “I won the game.”

He wiped pearls of sweat from his forehead. “Yes, sweetie, you won the game. You did great.”

 

***

 

Everybody: Stuart, John, Gaia and Zeb, were gathered in the sitting room, assembled around the fireplace. They were all so somber that one could swear they were attending a funeral. The heavy and restless silence was only troubled once in a while by one of Gaïa’s sobs.

When Anders walked in, carrying an exhausted yet alive little girl half-buried in the folds of his plaid, he was welcomed by a collective gasp. Gaïa did not gasp, however. She screamed.

The mother rushed toward Anders. For the span of a heartbeat, he was sure she would attack him, but he was inconsequential. All she wanted was to get to her child.

She snatched Moïra from him and covered her in grateful kisses and tears.

“Where did you find her?” Stuart wanted to know, touching his master’s shoulder in a concerned gesture.

“In the ruins down the road,” Anders breathed, crashing down into a chair. The fear and trepidation had passed, leaving him weary to the bone. “We were in the stables when the riders came. Luckily they did not find us, but it was a close shave.”

“They will come back,” Stuart said.   

“Yes, I know.”

John was watching the scene unfold from where he leant against the wall, at the side of the hearth. His expression was stern.

In an unusual bout of helpfulness, Zeb brought Anders a stiff drink. The nobleman drained it in one gulp. The healer then turned his attention to Moïra. She had numerous superficial scratches on her arms and legs that needed attention.

With an odd twinge of disappointment, Anders realized he was unconsciously hoping that by bringing Moïra back himself, he would appear a hero to John’s eyes. That, perhaps, would have helped him to be in his spouse’s good grace again. It didn’t appear to be the case… or maybe John was hiding his admiration very well.

Zeb came back from a trip to the kitchen with a herbal tincture to treat Moïra’s scratches.

Stuart had grabbed his bodrhàn and he sat down to play, the drum stick twirling between his fingers. “Today is the last day of the week of _Nitta_ ,” he told the others. “When I was young, my family honored the spirit of music by singing around the fireplace every night of that week. It was a good tradition in times of need, when the nomads had pillaged us during the winter and that we were still afraid they’d come back. Music chasses fear and invites hope in. Tonight, I think we all need some peace of mind.”

Gaïa held her daughter on her lap while Zeb was cleaning the wounds on her legs. The toddler whimpered, but when Stuart started beating the drum, she was sufficiently distracted to forget the sting.

The gardener, in a rich baritone, sang a slow hymn to the forest, the rivers, the rain and the deer -- some of the spirits that would be celebrated during the two last moons of spring.  

Anders spied on his husband changing moods from over the brim of his second glass of whiskey. John had a far-away look… the song had transported him somewhere Anders could not follow.

The final words of the hymn faded on Stuart lips and the last beatings of drum fell to the floor like autumn leaves.

Gaïa announced she was going to her room in the attic to fetch clean clothes for her daughter. Instead of giving Moïra to Stuart or even Zeb, she put the child on Anders’ lap.

He was startled at first. He had expected to be the last one she would trust. He took it as a gesture of forgiveness and, relieved to know he was not in trouble anymore, he accepted to take care of Moïra while she was gone.

Stuart took upon himself to go to the stables and unsaddle the horse. Zeb went back to the kitchen to dispose of the tincture. Apart from Anders and the child, only John remained in the room.

Moïra had had her fair share of emotions for the day. She was dozing off, her head lulling back against Anders’ chest. He settled her more comfortably, so she could nestle in the crook of his arm. Not long after, she had departed for the realm of dreams.

“I’m glad you brought her back unharmed,” John commented in a low voice.  

“I did great, there is no doubt on that,” Anders praised himself. “But Tiolam also helped.”

The fox was lying at his feet on the rug; still trusting, still loyal. Perhaps he was undeserving of that trust. She didn’t know he had intended on ending her life to save his own. He was glad he had spared it, however. One more loss would have been too much to endure.

Moïra wiggled in his arms, but she remained asleep. Anders could not tear his gaze away from her delicate face, her soft lashes and her rosy cheeks. He felt it again, this importunate pinch to his heart.

As she slept, Moïra kept her little hands each side of her head, one of them closed in a fist and the other wide opened, fingers spread. It unearthed memories from some twenty years back.  “I remember how Axl used to sleep like that as a baby,” Anders recollected. “She surely has taken it from him.”

John shook his head with a sigh. “I find it fascinating how clever you are regarding a lot of things and just how clueless and blind you can be about some others.”

It wasn’t exactly an insult, but the remark was derogatory enough to make Anders frown. “What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid this is not my secret to tell. Perhaps you should ask Gaïa,” he hinted.   

It was enough to make Anders’ stomach drop. How could John make such a claim?

Of course, Anders had enjoyed a roll in the hay with numerous women of different status during his young years. He had always suspicioned a child or two resulted from these exertions, but he hadn’t given that possibility much thought. Ignorance was bliss and he had never tried to confirm his inkling. It was fine as long as those children remained faceless, but Moïra wasn’t. She was very real.

He shook himself.

No. She couldn’t be his. Gaïa had been with Axl for moons… Anders and she had only slept together once. The numbers and probabilities were the side of Axl being the genitor. More importantly, Gaïa had designated him as such. He had no reason to think she had lied.

Anders pulled the little girl higher on his chest so he would be able to carry her easily. Stiff as a wood post, he stood from the chair, avoiding to look in his husband’s direction. “I’m going to go upstairs and see what takes that handmaiden so long,” he declared abruptly. “That’s pretty brazen of her, to have me, her master, take care of her child. I’m not a wet nurse!”

Cloaked in false contempt, he left the room. It was a poor disguise for a deeper trouble.

 

***

 

Under the slow slope of the castle roof was the servants’ quarters. The six, small, attic bedrooms used to house five people in each.

In one of them, Gaïa had sampled a fresh night gown from the few children clothes she kept in a box under the bed she shared with her daughter. The nights were cold, even if the attic was receiving the heat from the fireplaces downstairs. She had changed the sheets and was adding a thick quilt to the bed when Anders walked in.

“Thank you, sir,” she said when Anders carefully put Moïra down on the linen. The toddler uttered some displeased whines while her mother dressed her in the nightgown.

In silence, Anders waited until Gaïa had tucked her daughter under the covers and kissed her goodnight. When all that was done, he sat on the side of the bed.

In the light of the candle, they watched the child sleep for a while. It was not just a mere pinch by now; there was a grappling hook piercing through Anders’ heart.

Moïra’s nose shape --  it had struck him as familiar from the beginning. It became clear now that it wasn’t because it was Axl’s, like it should have been. It was familiar because there was a mirror in the room Anders occupied since his arrival at the Gull’s Nest. A reflection of his own face: that’s what he dreaded to see in her. He was still fighting against this idea, but he was losing his grip.

“Gaïa? Can I ask you a question?”

She sighed, the same way John had sighed just moments earlier. “Sure,” she whispered, in surrender. She knew what was coming and it only added to Anders’ anxiousness.

“I know it’s silly, but I feel like I have to ask. You were already pregnant when we slept together, right? You counted the weeks and she’s Axl’s for sure. There is no chance at all that she’s mine…”

The handmaiden took a deep breath. “In fact, there is no chance at all she’s Axl’s. His courting of me always remained chaste.”

“No. I mean… you…” he stuttered, but there was nothing more to say. He shut his mouth and wondered how he would get himself to accept this reality.  

“I never slept with Axl. Our love wasn’t physical. He always said I was a real lady to his eyes and that he’d wait until after our wedding.” There was an underlying pain in that confession. “As much as I wish it wasn’t the case: you’re Moïra’s sire.”

He too wished he wasn’t. This revelation was like being doused in icy water. He was not ready for that. He had never been good at dealing with the consequences of his actions… moreover so when it meant being responsible in some way for the existence of a small, fragile being. He still wanted to pretend nothing of this was real, but there was no way out of it.

“When Stuart told me you had arrived at the Gull’s Nest, I panicked,” Gaïa continued. “That’s why I ran away from you when you saw me in the hallway during your first night here. I hoped you would not figure out Moïra was yours. At the same time, I knew it was just a matter of time before you put one and one together.”

“Why did you lead me to believe she was my brother’s?”

“I didn’t,” she reminded him. “You assumed she was Axl’s and I chose not to correct you in that assumption.”

Gaïa was right. He had wished so bad the girl was his brother’s. He would have grasp on any piece of information that would comfort him in that belief.  

“So… I was the reason why Mike sent you here.”   

“Lord Mikkel sent me away from Aklànd to protect your engagement to His Highness. He wanted to make sure you’d not use the baby as an excuse to bail out.”  

Anders scoffed. “Ah, Mikkel, always thinking so little of me. Maybe that was a good thing it stayed a secret, though. Axl didn’t need more salt in his wounds.”  

The handmaiden smoothed the quilt at her daughter’s feet. “I was ready to leave Aklànd anyway. I didn’t want people there to discover whose child I was carrying. I was afraid the baby would look like you.”

“That she’d have my eyes and hair, you mean…”

“Yes.” She caressed Moïra’s wispy curls; soft and dark. “I was so glad when it turned out she did not.”  

“What a relief indeed,” Anders muttered, hurt in his pride a trifle. It was true, however, that with the Scarecrow hunting for scapegoats, Moïra had been blessed by the spirits not to look like her father.

Her _father_.

There was a pull on the grappling hook and his heart ached.

He was someone’s _father_. It was no longer so inconceivable, but it was just as frightening. This gave him one more reason to leave the Gull’s Nest as soon as he could.

 

***

 

Some of the shirts Anders folded and placed into the saddlebags had belonged to his father or to his brothers. The shirts were either too large or slightly too small for his frame, but he couldn’t afford to be picky. One kilt with the colors of the Mitchell clan was all that he owned, but traveling wearing that was like painting a target on his back. He found another one that had the colors of Clan Douglas, but a different pattern. The anonymous kilt, coupled to a heavy cloak that he found in a chest in his step-mother’s room, would be enough clothes for the duration of his travel to Aklànd. He planned to make it there in a little less than four days.

Most people living on Johnson land travelled by ship. The roads were hazardous, poorly maintained and ran across deep woods. In absence of any boat to use, Anders had little choice but to get used to the idea of all the discomforts travelling on land entailed.

He took a long dagger and a bow and arrows for sole weapons, hoping he wouldn’t have to use them except for hunting.

In one of the saddle bag’s pockets, he added a flint and steel, useful to light a fire in the wild.

He also found a large, thick piece of fabric that could easily be used as canvas for a makeshift tent. He was on the floor, busy rolling it up into a tight bundle when he heard a discreet knock on the door.

“It’s me, Your Grace,” Stuart announced. Anders let him in.  

The gardener assessed the bags and the travel supplies scattered on the beds. “I see you’ve taken your decision,” he remarked.  

“Yes. I’m leaving.” Anders went back to his task. “If you could have the gelding saddled tomorrow at dawn, I would be grateful.”   

“Of course, sir.” Stuart scratched the gray beard on his chin, pensive. “What about His Lordship?”  

“He’s staying here until he’s strong enough to make the journey.” Anders tied up the bundle with a leather lace and secured it to the side of the saddlebags. Noting Stuart was in doubt, he felt the need to justify his decision. “Me, here, it doesn’t do any good, to anybody. I don’t feel like there is much more I can do anyway, either for John’s recovery or to save my marriage.”

“Your husband is like a beetroot.”  

The comment took Anders by surprise. “Sorry?”

“He needs to marinate in his own vinegar for a little while,” Stuart supplied.  

The analogy tore an unexpected chuckle out of the Anders. “Yes, in a way. I think a bit of alone-time will help him put things in perspective.”

“Does he know you’re going?”

“Not yet. I’ll go and break the news to him once I’m done packing.” He was nearly done. “Where are my riding gloves and my belt?”

After a quick search, Stuart pointed at the belt on the floor.  Anders could have sworn he had placed it on the bed. The gloves were also gone. It didn’t take him long to identify the thief. Tiolam had snatched them behind his back, brought them under a cabinet and peed on them.

“By the spirits, Tiolam!” he cursed as he retrieved the urine-soaked gloves. “Why did you do that?” It wasn’t unusual for foxes to display that sort of behavior, but tonight, Anders interpreted it as a vengeance directed toward him… and also a clear message that she did not agree with his plan to take the road come the morning.

To help his master, Stuart took the soiled pair of gloves and started cleaning them with a cloth.

“You’re leaving, sir?” Zeb asked, entering the bedroom uninvited. Knocks on doors and privacy were concepts unknown to him. “You’re going to Aklànd?”

“Keep your voice down, idiot!” Anders snapped. His husband was in his room next door. “John doesn’t know yet!”

“Can I go with you?” Zeb begged. “I heard that the drinking parties in Aklànd are the best. No offense, but here is about as boring as an old ladies prayer house.”

“Out of question! John still needs a healer. Besides, I don’t care that you’re bored. I’m not paying you to party.”

“You’re not paying me. I didn’t receive a penny since last moon.”

“You’re fed and you have a roof over your head,” Anders retorted. “So stop complaining.”

Zeb crossed his arms. “Nothing keeps me here if I don’t have a decent wage.”

In frustration, Anders tossed his belt to the bed. “Fine! Before I go, I’ll show you some furniture and clothes that I allow you to load on the cart and go sell in Faoileag. You’ll give twenty percent of the profit to Stuart, and another twenty to Gaïa, and you can keep the rest. But you must stay here and give my husband the best care and assistance that you are capable of!”

Zeb’s face split into a pleased grin. “Deal!”

“Now, get out of my sight, you ungrateful brat.”

The healer was too happy to oblige.

Stuart gave the somewhat cleaned gloves to his master. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, sir?”

“No, it’ll be all. You can go to bed,” Anders dismissed him. The old man bowed and exited the room.

Tiolam climbed to the window sill and observed Anders with half-lidded eyes as he finished pulling and fastening the straps of the bags.

“Don’t you dare judge me,” he told her. “I’m doing what’s best for everybody concerned!”

Once he was done, he sat down on the bed and buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t afford to have second thoughts.

The fox jumped off the window and came to him. She nudged his wrist with her cool, damp nose. He took her head and scratched her behind the ears. “He’s going to be very upset, isn’t he?”  

Of course John would be upset! There was little chance he would take the news with a shrug… and if he did, it meant that it was truly over between them.

“Do you remember when John bought you at the market and carried you in a box to Brastàl castle? You were so small and hungry… and I was so in love with him. I had no bloody idea what I was getting into.”

 

***

 

It took Anders several hours through the night to raid the castle’s pantries and gather enough food supply for this trip. It would have taken him half the time if he had built enough courage to to go to John’s room.

He was sure his husband would not be asleep. He had taken the habit of staying awake at night.

In front of the master bedroom, Anders wrung his hands and fidgeted instead of knocking. He had no idea what he would find to the other side of the door. He had learnt by now that nothing good came from postponing a confrontation with John. The more he waited, the worse it would get.  

He clenched his jaw and knocked.

“Come in,” said John’s voice, somewhat muffled.  There was something different about the tone of it; nothing positive per say, just… different.  

“It’s Anders.”

“I know. Come in.”

“I need to speak to you and I’m not allowed to get into your room,” Anders reminded him, still bothered by that stupid deal he had been forced to strike.

“I told you to come in, didn’t I?”

Anders took it as a good sign. He would not give John the time to change his mind, but when he came into the bedchamber, he understood at once why John sounded different.

The writing cabinet had been pulled to the center of the room. John was sitting at it, with the upper part of his body sprawled out on top. He was chest-naked, wearing only his kilt despite the fire being dead and the room chilly. His left hand was grabbing the curls at the nape of his neck. His hair was a mess. When he lifted his head, his arm fell to his side.

Anders noticed his dilated pupils, his slacked jaw and, most importantly, the bottle of whisky nearby. It was three-quarter empty. Only the spirits knew how full it was before John got his hand on it.

“I know why you’re here,” John said. His speech was slurry from the abuse of alcohol. He staggered to his feet, swaying a little. Anders feared for a second he would fall and hit the floor face first. He doubted he had seen John so drunk before, even on their wedding night.

John pointed at the bed. “Undress,” he ordered.  

The crude nature of the request took Anders off guard. “What? Why?”

“Why do you think?” John grabbed the whisky bottle and took a swig. “Didn’t you hear me? I told you to strip down, husband.”

Anders frowned. “No.”  

“No?”

“No, I won’t.”

“You’d refuse yourself to me?” John challenged him. “You’d refuse to perform your conjugal duty?”  

“Yes.”  

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Anders gave a curt shake of his head. “Not like this.”

John scoffed. “You were the one reminding me not so long ago that we used to be lovers.”  

“You know exactly what I meant by that.”

Anders couldn’t believe he was turning down something for which he had been yearning with ardent passion. This was so unlike him. Under normal circumstances, he would have said yes, especially to angry sex and wouldn’t have cared about the consequences and the mixed emotions that would come with it.

This was different, though. What he truly wanted was the reassurance that a bond still existed between the two of them and the sole thing he’d get if he gave in and got undressed would be sex. And while sex itself could be desirable, if Anders allowed it to happen, John’s kisses would leave a bitter taste on his lips, and not only from the whiskey. In the morning, they’d both regret it, John even more than he, most probably.

Offended by the rejection, John’s temper began to flare up. “Does that mean that you changed your mind? You don’t want me anymore, darling?” There was nothing endearing about this endearment. The red color of anger and intoxication marked John’s forehead and cheeks. “This is the reason, isn’t it?” he taunted Anders. With his teeth, he ripped off the bandage on his right arm, exposing the slowly-healing stump. It wasn’t a pretty sight, no matter the angle you chose to look at it. “You’re too good to be fucked by a one-handed man: is that what’s bothering you, Anders?”

Anders had heard enough and he wouldn’t take it lying down. “What’s bothering me right now is that you are drunk and acting like an arsehole!” He snatched the bottle from John’s lose grip. “I didn’t come here to fight,” he stated.

“Why are you here, then?”

Wordlessly, Anders put the bottle away, out of his husband’s reach.

John’s expression’s changed. “Oh. You’re here to tell me about the handmaiden’s girl…”   

He had guessed right, at least partly. It was Anders’ intention to tell him about Moïra, but it wasn’t the only reason why he was there. “I’m the father.” There was no doubt in his mind now that John had been aware of that fact for longer than he did.

John’s eyes narrowed in disagreement. “You’re the genitor,” he corrected, “but you’re not her father.”  

‘Yes, I know. Legally, I can only be father to the children I would raise with my lawful spouse.”

“And you’ve made it abundantly clear that you have no desire to raise children with me.” It was an unconcealed reproach.

“I can’t say I really warmed up to the idea of paternity,” Anders admitted, trying to keep his cool, “but, with Moira…. it’s different.” As a general rule, he disliked having to talk about his feelings. It turned into a true ordeal when he had to explain feelings he didn’t have the time to process yet.

Obviously this conversation was only adding to John’s whisky-fuel resentment. “How come? Because she has your blood and our children wouldn’t?”

Anders flexed his fingers and remained quiet. He had hoped John wasn’t going to turn this conversation into a drama, but it was apparently too much to ask.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” John decided with a gesture of dismissal. “I don’t need heirs anymore. Since I’ve lost everything, from my land to my horse, I have nothing to give in heritage. You must be happy things turned to your advantage.”

In the depth of his chest, Anders was brewing his own poison of ire and vexation. John had turned up the heat by bringing this subject once again, and it was boiling to the point of overflowing.   

“I see now that there is no point for me be the bigger person and brandish a white flag!” Anders exploded. “You are unable to forgive yourself for your mistakes, how could you forgive anyone else for theirs, let alone someone you once claimed to love? You’ll never stop beating me up, just like you can’t stop torturing yourself!”

The reply that came from John was just as scathing. “Maybe I’d be more forgiving if you showed a hint of remorse or if you had tried to apologize even once!”

“You want me to apologize?” Anders bellowed. “Fine! Hear this! I’m sorry I’m a constant disappointment! I’m sorry I don’t live up to your mighty standards of what a good spouse must be! I’m sorry I can’t be the mild and meek trophy-husband you’ve been longing for since you were old enough to have hard-ons!” Anders felt the prickle of upcoming tears in the vicinity of his nose, but his eyes stayed stubbornly dry.

John couldn’t inject a word of his own. He found himself caught in a tempest that had the violence of a winter sea storm. He held on to the bedpost, not to be dragged away by the current, or maybe because he was too drunk to stand straight.

“There might be a tattoo on my wrist, but it doesn’t mean anything!” Anders continued. “I realise it’s not me that you’ve wedded! What you married was an illusion constructed in your mind during the years of our engagement! You’ve built a sand castle and fell in love with that pretty image, but that fantasy of yours, it has never been me!”

It was only now that he took in the full measure of what Miller meant when he had told him _“John Mitchell doesn’t do love.”_ Anders had first judged these words as being said out of spite by a scorned lover. They now appeared as being a genuine warning.

“You’re not entirely to blame, though,” Anders pointed out. “I suspect that your father, despite his good intentions, contributed to it.” He sat down on the bed. His hands were trembling. He didn’t have it in him to shout anymore. “You’ve been told and repeated that you were bound to love me, so you did what was expected of you. You fell, hard and fast… too fast... But the sandcastle crumbled, dream has faded, the illusion is shattered. Now you look at me and you don’t understand what you see.”

He met his husband’s eyes and as a matter of fact, John stared at him like he was a stranger – a stranger who had just stabbed him.  

“I’m sorry for all of that, but I won’t apologize for who I am,” Anders concluded. “I don’t always make good decisions, but neither do you and I don’t need your permission to be human.”  

Now that he was done talking, Anders wished his husband would say something: anything. For the long minutes that followed, John kept his head down, his face veiled with dark curls. Anders had the urge to grab him by the shoulders, shake him. _“Don’t you see that we’re losing each other? Is that really what you want?”_ But perhaps John didn’t care.

Anders stood and nervously dusted some imaginary specks of dust from the front of his kilt.  “In fact, I’m here to tell you I’m leaving for Aklànd at the break of dawn.”  

He had waited for a reaction and that was it. John snapped his head up. His face paled from a few visible color shades, like someone who just took a blow to the head. The shock had an instant sobering effect. “What? What are you saying?”

“I watched you wallowing in self-pity and I bear your anger long enough now, John. I’m tired of this. I don’t want to wait at your door like a stray dog for you to decide whether you still care for me or not. It’s frustrating and it’s pointless.”

“You-you are leaving me?” John scanned Anders’ face in a desperate search for a clue that this was a jest or an empty threat. “Are you ending this marriage as well?”

“What I’m doing is giving us some time on our own to figure out if there’s something that can be done to salvage what’s left of said marriage.”  

John’s body stiffened. “Do what you must. Leave… since running away seems to be your speciality.”

“Is this why you think I’m leaving?” Anders asked. “Yes, I’m leaving because I’m scared, but not for the reasons that you think. By staying here, I put everybody in danger. Duncan’s men are looking for me. They suspect I’m here and they are closing in, but they don’t know you are alive. If I go to Aklànd and make myself known there, it’ll distract their attention away from the Gull’s Nest. You’ll be safer and they’ll stop harassing Stuart and the rest of the household. Believe it or not, I’m also thinking of our country, and also of Mikkel who, in all likelihood, is prisoner in Brastàl. I have to join my family, and with them, think of a way to free him, your mother and the others. Mike and I didn’t always get along, but I do care for him: he’s my brother.” Anders took a deep, shaky intake of air and rose from the bed. He had said it all in one breath, for fear his willpower would falter.

The contour of John’s eyes had reddened. His nostrils flared… not from anger, for a change, but with sadness and regret. “You’re right,” he whispered, low and gravelly. “You have to go to Aklànd.” He took three careful steps to approach Anders. His expression was devastated – a battlefield just before the crows found it.  

John reached his hand and touched Anders’ face, his fingers resting lightly to the skin underneath his jawline with a quiet supplication.

Anders shivered. He wished this touch could fix everything, but it didn’t. This last argument had only managed to deepen Anders’ hurt. Besides, John was only showing him some consideration and opening now that he threatened to leave and break the emotional leash John kept him on.

“There is nothing I can say that’ll make you stay, is there?” John murmured.    

A growing lump in his throat, Anders shook his head. “No. It’s too late for that.” He pulled John’s hand away from his face. “Zeb is going to stay and help you complete your recovery. I’ll arrange for you to join me in Aklànd when you have the strength to make the journey.”

He stepped away in order to fetch the whisky bottle. He was not going to leave any alcohol with John. The man was sufficiently hammered as he was. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?” he offered.

John had moved to the window. He stood there, his back to his spouse, the stump of his arm still without a bandage “No. Just go…”

These were the last words they exchanged.

Later, sitting at the window of his own bedroom, Anders drank the rest of the whisky bottle as he waited for the dawn.

 


	6. Two Funerals in Aklànd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wherever my duty lay, I figured out the only path for me was the one that led out of the door. I couldn’t look back, neither at you, the house, or the man I once loved but was just the shadow of himself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm really sorry it took me so long to update. I have chronic muscle pain, my health was very bad lately and it prevented me from writing for weeks. I'm not saying this to complain, just to let you know why it took so long. 
> 
> Second of all, I'm in a long-term relationship with that story now and, for this chapter, I chose to use a different POV to spice things up between us. Bear with me, my friends. I promise the next chapters are going to be a little more conventional. 
> 
> Third, and most importantly, big thanks to my cherished friend and beta-reader Katyushha for her help and enthusiasm and also to dragon4488 for her art that is a constant inspiration.

 

 

_Most of the things you heard about me are true. Many lies had been said too, but remember there is no smoke without fire. And by the time you get to read this, smoke is maybe the only thing that will be left of me._

_Don’t expec_ _t_ _to find any kind of apology through th_ _e_ _se lines. I’m not writing this to make amends, make excuses, or even explain. I’m here to throw a line through time, for you to grasp and follow. Along the way, you’ll get to learn the workings of my mind._

 _If you think leaving the Gull’s Nest was difficult, you’re wrong. And if you think it was an easy decision to make, you’re also mistaken. Another man would have felt better at ease by staying and leaping into the role of the provider and the caretaker. I’m not of that sort. Wherever my duty l_ _ay,_ _I figured out the only path for me was the one that led out of the door._

 

_***_

 

_I used to be able to drink half a bottle of whisky and still get up the next day as fresh and chipper as a songbird. But on the morning of the first day of Ka, I woke up hungover and rueful. It reminded me the hard way I wasn’t twenty anymore. In any case, this proved I was less solid than the spirit of oak trees._

_Even submerging my head into the rainwater barrel outside the house was barely enough for me to sober up. It left me freezing and damp, but achieved little else._

_Zeb brought me some mixture to drink. It tasted like pus, but the throbbing pain inside my skull faded._

_I had planned to leave at the break of dawn. The sun was nearly halfway to the zenith and I was still at the Gull’s Nest._

_If anyone had asked me why I was delaying my departure, wasting precious hours that would have been better spent on the road, I would have probably replied that a solitary, several-days trip on horseback while you’re chased by a bunch of fanatics demanded careful preparation. To tell the truth, my thoughts were monopolized by one subject that morning: John. It left little room for anything practical._

_John’s my husband. You must know who I’m talking about? He’s the clansman with the dark good looks who haunted the master bedroom on the second floor and was perpetually brooding._

_He hadn’t always been like that. There was a time when he still smiled and smiled often. That smile of his, it made you want to gravitate around his person: seek his attention and his conversation._

_Old warriors respected his opinions and his command. The young ones admired his skills and aspired to be like him. Several of his courtiers dreamed to be invited in his bed. They were all curious to know what kind of magic would happen_ _if_ _they made those fine lips give a moan instead of one of their brilliant grins. Some had this honor, but in the end, he was mine._

_This, of course, was before the war…_

_The war changed everything._

_Because I wanted to protect myself - because I wanted to protect him and what we had, I lied. It was easier for me to conceal the truth about the fall of Brastàl than having to deal with his grief. In the end, I still have to bear it._

_People he cared about were killed because of decisions I was forced to make. Now he calls me a coward and won’t look me in the eye._

_I came to see that he values his pride over our union. The more time passes, the more I doubt we will be able to recover from that._

_And yet, that morning, I hoped John would have come downstairs to the courtyard to wish me a safe journey._

_But he didn’t._

_I should have been hurt, perhaps, by his lack of regard for me, but at this stage, I was able to convince myself I wasn’t._

_A part of me was relieved, though. I’m not sure I would have known what to say to him if he had come down…_

_You were there, however – in your mother’s arms. You had cried earlier. Your nose was still runny and Gaia kept wiping it with a handkerchief. Since Tiolam was leaving with me, you lost a good playmate that day. I sympathized, trust me. Animals are often more reliable than humans. But even if I had left Tiolam behind at the Gull’s Nest, she would have found a way to escape and follow me. She, at least, hadn’t let me down._

_I remember you kept asking Gaia, between sniffles, if Tiolam could stay. You didn’t care much I was going myself. I can’t blame you. I meant nothing to you… not much anyway. I’m only the man who sired you. That in itself doesn’t count_ _in_ _the eyes of the spirits. I may have saved you from the briars, we are strangers to one another, not unlike John and I when we got married._

_When Stuart led the saddled horse out of the stables and brought it to me, I knew the time had come for me to say farewell and take the road._

_“I’ll send you money to support the child,” I told your mother. It was the least I could do. This surprise paternity was an additional charge to my already complicated situation. I was only trying to buy myself some peace of mind by offering to pay her expenses._

_“I don’t want your money,” she stated. “Moïra and I have been living quite well without your help. I can provide for her.”_

_I suspected my intentions would be met with a refusal. “If your independence is the thing you want the most, I won’t take that from you,” I assured her. “But don’t you want to quit your job as a house-cleaner? I don’t know… maybe marry someone? Have other children?”_

_“No thanks.” She gave a determined shake of her head for emphasis. “_ _I never felt any strong urge to have a mouth at my breast. I love my daughter, don’t mistake me,” she clarified, giving your hair a gentle stroke, “but I never planned on having a child… let alone with you.”_

_“Don’t worry. I wasn’t proposing,” I replied with an uneasy chuckle. “One marriage is plenty enough for me to handle. Just promise me you’ll find a way to write if you need anything.”_

_“I don’t think I will need anything from you, but fine, I promise,” she surrendered._

_“Address your letters to Lord Tyrone,” I advised. “He’ll pass them on to me.”_

_I had done the noble thing. Nobody could get back at me and point out any irresponsibleness on my part. I had offered. She had turned me down. It was the end of the story as far as I was concerned._

_I turned to you. You were staring at me with those inquisitive brown eyes, so much like your mother’s. I still had a hard time believing you were mine. The resemblance between us had been evident to John from the start, but I still had to look closer to find any. With a sense of odd embarrassment, I patted your curls, imitating Gaïa’s previous gesture. “Take care of your mom, alright?”_

_In a bout of shyness, you buried you face in Gaïa’s loose knitted scarf, still peeking at me in between the stitches you stretched between your tiny fingers._

_“I almost forgot. I have something for you here.” I retrieving from inside my sporran the wild boar pull-toy that used to be mine as a child. It was i_ _n b_ _ad condition when Stuart found it in the garden, but since I had a lot of time on my hands during my stay at summer house_ _, I had cleaned it with a brush and some sandpaper. With the rust removed from the wheels and axle, it was almost as good as new._

_You exchanged a look with your mother, silently asking permission to take the present. When you finally grabbed it, you held it tight, as if you were afraid I’d change my mind and take it back._

_I could tell my gift to you was making Gaïa uncomfortable. It wasn’t so much the present in itself, but rather the fact I showed this degree of familiarity toward you. She was too polite to voice it. “What do you say to His Grace, Moïra?”_

_“Dank you,” you mumbled, and clung to the toy even harder._

_“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” Zeb stepped in, uninvited as usual._

_“I’m positive!” This wasn’t open for debate. I needed someone to look after John. I foraged into my sporran once more. “Here is the list of items I allow you to sell to cover what I owe you. But you must honor your contract or else I swear I’ll find you.” I narrowed my eyes to make it into a real threat. Zeb still harboured a doubt on whether I was the sorcerer the Scarecrow accused me to be or just the average aristocratic bully. I made sure to cultivate in him the belief I could curse those who stood in my way so he would do my bidding. So far, it worked wonders._

_He gave a quiet nod and pocketed his precious list._

_I then moved to take the horse’s reins and give Stuart’s hand a good shake. “Thank you for everything you did for us, and also for your loyalty in those difficult times.”_

_“Always, sir.” He squeezed my forearm with his other hand before he let go._

 

_Tiolam was already at the gate, waiting for me. She was trying to dig a hole through the gravel of the courtyard, then abandoned her work site to find another one a few feet further. Compulsive digging was her way to show impatience._

_Foolishly, I still looked and waited for John. It became obvious that he would not come. The realization left a sort of void in my chest. I despised those sensations over which I had no control._

_I put my foot in the stirrup and pulled myself onto the saddle. As I lifted my head to take in the sight of the Gull’s Nest one last time, I noticed a tall shadow at one of the windows on the second floor. John had been standing there looking at us. For how long?_

_The void in my chest expanded, leaving me fighting for the next breath. I had to go before it swallowed me whole._

_I stared up at him for a few more seconds. I couldn’t distinguish his face or his expression. I would never get to know what he felt as he watched me leave. Selfishly enough, I hoped he was miserable._

_I cued the horse to turn around and head toward the gate. I couldn’t look back, neither at you, the house, or the man I once loved but was just the shadow of himself._

_“Leave fast”, I told myself, “in case you’re tempted to turn back.”_

_As soon as I got past the gate, I pushed the gelding to gallop down the road._

_“Is there anything I can say that’ll make you stay?” There was a million things John could have said to make me regret my decision. I’m glad he said nothing in the end._

 

_***_

 

_The strange void settled in my ribcage and rode with me me for the entire day as I skirted the first two or three small villages along the coast. I travelled through the moors, fields and the barrier of hills that shielded the woods from the blasting ocean winds._

_I reached the dense and dark forest in the afternoon. The woodlands were the pride of the Johnson lands: a hunter’s paradise. Here, game was abundant and striving._

_Despite my tribulations, I found some peace there. With the chirping birds and the occasional and distant hammering of a woodpecker, the companionship of the trees was quiet and consoling._

_The possibility to encounter highwaymen or any other riffraff in this part of the land was real. And yet, perhaps for the first time in my life, I could sense the presence and protection of the spirits. They were looking over me. I was unafraid._

_I had made sure I hadn’t been followed. Nobody knew where I was._

_On the first night of my journey, I stopped to sleep in a clearing where an old oak took pride of place. Its roots, massive and vigorous,_ _had been grasping at the soil for_ _at least a century or two, judging by the sheer size of its trunk. I had killed the boar that attacked John during our first marital trial at the foot of an oak much similar to this one._

 _I sat near th_ _at_ _magnificent ancestor to light a fire and eat a late dinner. Since the current week was dedicated to that spirit, I knew I had found the safest place_ _in_ _the forest._

 

_On the second day, I brushed the morning dew off my coat and took the road again. My mood had improved significantly._

_I felt liberated for the first time in moons. I could breathe in the earthy and exciting scent of the wilderness. I was free from the lies and the secrets. I was free from John and the emotional burden of our relationship, and also from any obligations I could have toward you or your mother. I was my own man again._

_The world, previously gray, showed its true, shimmering green colors again. There were the sea, the forests and the tall grass on the hills where I had thought were only sorrow, uncertainty and frustration._

_Tiolam was skipping ahead like a deer in a buckwheat field and I shared in her fervor._

_I was rejuvenated; sporting a mental and sensory boner nothing seemed to be able to discourage._

 

_The next day, it rained and my elation turned into guilt. All the egoistic reasons why I had parted from my spouse came nagging me. John would be stuck with Zeb for weeks without any other distraction. I would throw myself off a cliff for less._

_Sure, our marriage had gone sour and John turned into an aggressive fault-finder. It made his presence less desirable. But still… I had abandoned him when he needed me the most. He was in this dark, bottomless abyss, and here I was, enjoying the view._

_Who was I kidding? John didn’t need me. If he did, he would have shown me more respect. He didn’t want me anywhere near him. In fact, he didn’t need anybody. He was cozy at the Gull’s Nest, with his inflated ego and his self-pity. He was so butt-hurt I wondered how he managed to say seated on that high horse of his._

_And this is how, as I reached the stripe of bare hills near the city of Wooden, that my guilt morphed into resentment once more. I thought I was done with the anger, but apparently I was wrong._

_When someone carelessly lights a campfire without assessing the soil around, a tree root can smolder underground for days until the fire surfaces again and starts a blaze._

_My train of though_ _t_ _was much like that burning tree root. Having only myself to feed my inner dialog, my imagination was running riot and starting arsons of its own._

_What would happen after John’s recovery, when he’d join me in Aklànd? Would we be expected to share a room and a bed? Most probably. This meant I had to tell my brothers about my marital problems. Ty especially would want to know and I wasn’t sure I was ready to disclose such personal matters. I could already see Cousin Olaf shaking his head and repeating my name in disappointment._

_Fighting with my spouse in the relative privacy of the Gull’s Nest was one thing. The audience there was limited and confined. Having my failures exposed in the public setting of Aklànd’s court was another business entirely._

_And when John would arrive, would he present me with a separation contract? We couldn’t annul the marriage, it was too late for that since it had been consummated already, but we could still be allowed to live separately, provided we had the right papers signed. Would John want that? Did I want that? Had we gone so far that the only option left was to give our story this pitiful end?_

_If this solution had been on the table seven moons ago, I would have jumped on it without hesitation. I had prayed for any possible way to be rid of this arranged union. Now, where did I stand?_

_I had no answer. I still don’t._

 

_When I approached Tràsg on the early morning of my fourth day of travel, I rode in a fog so thick I could barely see my horse’s ears._

_I didn’t have to cast my eyes on the fishing town to know it was there. The smell was enough clue. Even by clear day, people used to say that one could locate Tràsg with their nose only, even before catching a glimpse of the fishers’ shacks._

_By sundown, I was to be home._

_The weariness of the journey gnawed at my bones. I had been able to ignore the stench of my own damp clothes until now, but the end of the travel was nearing and making me hope for a hot bath and some rest. Tiolam had lost some of her previous enthusiasm as well. She wasn’t skipping ahead anymore … more like trailing behind the horse in jaded zigzags._

 

_At midday, the fog lifted and an enchanting scent chased the fishy one from the coast._

_I had nearly forgotten the beauty of our vast orchards in spring. I went up a path on_ _the slope of a small hill, under the blossoming apple trees, The pink and white petals rained down on me, sticking to my shoulders and to the horse’s black mane._

_My native land was welcoming my glorious return. I was the proud son of Aklànd who had gone to the nomads’ country and came back to tell the tale. Even nature recognized my exceptional feats. I wondered how my brothers would react when they’d see me._

_When I reached the top of the hill, I took in the sight of Aklànd’s bay; its port and its city unrolling at my feet. It looked just as I dreamt and remembered it. The water of Apple Bay lapped at the sand of the long, crescent moon beach. A small fleet of merchant ships sailed in from around the peninsula where the castle stood._

_With its imposing limestone walls, Aklànd castle was strategically situated to ensure the control and surveillance of the whole bay._

_I pressed by horse downhill. I was eager to get home at last._

_When I reached the edge of the orchards, I dismounted and led my horse by the bridle to feel the grass of the pastures under my boots. My cramped legs appreciated the change of treatment._

_Strong baileys enclosed the city and castle together. The castle itself was protected by a second set of battlements. The gates of the city’s baileys were left ope_ _n_ _at this time of the day so people could come and go. Usually, a pair of guards were on duty, collecting taxes on the merchandize that entered the city. Today, I could count ten of them. This wasn’t what caught my attention. An increase in manpower had to be expected. Clan Johnson was at war, after all._

_What struck me first was the violet banners with the silver apple tree sigil displayed over the gates. Violet was the color of mourning._

_The last time such banners floated over the gates, my father, the late Lord Johnson, had disappeared at sea. We had hosted a wake at the castle. In absence of a body to burn, as per Aklànd’s traditions, we placed on the funeral pyre what the old Gaelic language called a ‘dumaìdh’, dressed in my father’s clothes. After my father’s funerals, the violet banner had stayed on the city’s walls for the fourteen days of mourning._

_The banners being displayed again meant that someone of the clan, or close to the ruling family, had passed away._

_My ambition of making a grand entrance was tempered by this new worry. Who had died? Was it one of my brothers? Had Duncan executed Mikkel? Had Tyrone or Axl found an untimely demise at the hands of the usurper’s assassins? What about Olaf? Had he taken ill after one of his experimentations with drugs?_

 

 _The lieutenant at the gate didn’t recogniz_ _e_ _me. Granted, I always shaved before. Now I was sporting a thick beard and my hair was concealed by a tam hat. I had lost quite a bit of weight and acquired some new wrinkles and scars. With my clothes covered in dirt and my old farm horse, few people could have guessed I was consort to the legitimate ruler of the country._

_I answered the guard’s questions, telling him a disguised version of the truth: I had traveled from Rosecliff to visit relatives. I refrained from telling him who I really was._

_They confiscated my bow and arrows at the gate, but let me keep my dagger. A new rule forbidden anybody to bear long-range weapons inside the cit_ _y w_ _alls._

_Nobody paid any attention to the fox following me so closely I nearly tripped on her a few times._

_I understood why Tiolam went unnoticed when I walked through the marketplace and I saw several young women with fox cubs in their arms. Seeing so many foxes in a same place was making Tiolam nervous and she stuck to my side. John should have anticipated that by giving me one as a present, he would turn it into a new trend. Now, pet foxes seemed to be all the rage. Those poor people would soon discover that raising a furry monster like mine was not always a barrel of laugh. Furthermore, I didn’t want to think of all the fox mothers who’d be deprived from their litter of pups to feed that rising market._

 

 _I had hoped to find my city basking in its habitual atmosphere of joyful carefreeness, but here as well, war had left its mark. No music or public entertainers in the street_ _s_ _. People dragged their feet, avoiding to look at one another. Others were in a hurry to get home._

_Citizens had closed their shutters and hung pieces of violet fabric to their door in solidarity with the mourning of the Johnson clan._

_I took the grand alley and reached the castle just before sundown, my stomach tight with dread and my head filled with anxious questions._

_Violet banners also adorned the stone arc of the main gate._

_Once again, the guards failed to recognize me. The man in charge of controlling the entrance threw a glance at my kilt. It vaguely resembled the one of Clan Douglas. In the fading light, it was an easy mistake to make. “You’re here to attend the funerals?” he asked me._

_I flinched at his use of plural. More than one of my family members had died? How many of them?_

_I gave the guard a positive answer. I handed him the only weapon I had left and he allowed me in._

_I hastened to go to the stables. The staff was absent – all of them gone to the courtyard to watch the ceremony. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t calm the thumping of my heart. I wasn’t ready to witness any of my brothers being burnt on a pyre._

_I unsaddled and fed the horse in what used to be Ornàn’s stall. I spared a thought for my poor stallion, slaughtered by Duncan. I left Tiolam in another stall, determined to come back and get her later._

_Already, I could hear the solemn roaring of bagpipes from the other side of the castle._

 

_In the courtyard, a compact crowd blocked my sight. The crowd was mostly composed of members of the court, their families and the staff from the castle. I elbowed by way to the first row._

_The guard hadn’t lied to me. The castle was hosting two funerals today._

_They had erected only one funeral pyre, but large enough to lay two bodies down, side by side. To my relief, the two immobile forms were not real corpses but two dumaìdh: lay-figures of rattan dressed in a blue and green tartan kilt. The kilts had most likely been cut from the thirty yards of fabric given to the Johnsons as an honorary present when I had married into Clan Mitchell. One of the lay-figures had a sword placed on its chest, the other one had a silver cup: the symbols of a clan lord and his consort._

_At this very moment, I had the strangest realization a human being could have. I was at my own funeral: mine and my husband’s, in fact._

_I spotted the dais and the Lord’s chair, at the opposite end of the courtyard. The chair was empty, but Ty was nearby, much alive and conversing with Olaf. I couldn’t locate Axl yet._

_The bagpipes’ song reached its end. The sun has set. Several servants came forward to light the torches around the courtyard. I took it as my cue to make my presence known._

_I sneak along the wall toward the dais, still unnoticed._

_The security around the castle would have to be reinforced, I thought. Given how easily I reached the ruling family under a false identity, if members of the Scarecrow wanted to get to me here and kill me with their bare hands, they could do it without any problem._

_I stepped on the dais, amongst the bagpipe players, advisors and other officials. I couldn’t help a smirk. Ty and Olaf were completely oblivious to my presence. I was only a foot behind my brother when I leant forward over his shoulder and said: “So? What did I miss? Care to fill me in?”_

_I knew he had heard me and recognized my voice, just the way his shoulders tensed all of a sudden. He snapped his head around and looked at me, eyes round like copper coins. He scanned my face in disbelief. His mouth slowly opened as he found the familiar traits under the beard and hat. I chuckled at his shocked expression. I was enjoying this more than I probably should._

_“Anders!?” Ty exclaimed, which attracted Olaf’s attention as well._

_“That’s me,” I confirmed, giving them a smile._

_Cousin Olaf scanned me from head to toes, trying to figure out whether I was real or the result of whatever drug he had ingested last._

_“Damn Gods!” Ty cursed, his astonishment turning into a grin that mirrored my own. He grabbed both my shoulders in a friendly greeting. “I can’t believe it! Is that really you?”_

_“In the flesh!”_

_He pulled me into a crushing hug and I laughed again, returning his embrace. I had missed those rare brotherly effusions more than I cared to admit._

_“Anders! You’re here!” Olaf uttered when Ty let me go. He always was the last one to catch up. He hugged me as well and even pressed a kiss to the top of my head._

_“That’s why I do that: coming back from the dead,” I jested. “I do it for the hugs.”_

_By now, the officials standing on the dais were all aware of my unexpected reappearance. The news travelled fast through the crowd, from mouths to ears. I was the center of attention. In the audience, my name was whispered in thrill and incredulity._

_“Where is Axl?” I inquired._

_“He’s here in Aklànd,” Ty reassured me. “He’s gone to fetch the priests and the druid to start the ceremony. He should be here any minute.”_

_“So this is my funeral, huh?” I commented. “I’m pleased to see you spared no expense.” Multiple drapes of expensive fabric decorated the pyre: vibrant red, black, green and blue, to symbolize the union between clans Johnson and Mitchell. This would all burn in the fire. The gold ornaments that pinned the drapes together would melt as well._

_“Yes it’s your funeral… and also Lord John’s,” Ty replied, growing somber._

_“I’m not dead,” I pointed out._

_“We know that now,” Olaf said. “But we were led to believe that you had shared our Great Lord’s demise at the hands of the Nomads and the Invaders. We thought you had been captured and executed as well.”_

_“Well, obviously, you heard wrong.” The whole scene had lost its entertainment. It started to feel like a strange and unsettling dream._

_I couldn’t ask for more explanations on what was going on here, or give any of my own._

_One of the castle’s door opened and my youngest brother, followed by the temple’s druid, several priests and a lady, went down the stairs and marched to the dais._

_Axl hailed Tyrone. “Ty, the priests are ready to-“ He stopped dead in his tracks when our eyes locked. My baby brother had changed. He looked older and more serious._

_“Hi, Axl,” I said._

_The others around us stepped away to leave us some space. Speechless for a moment, Axl stared. I expected to get from him a similar greeting tha_ _t_ _I got from my other brother and my cousin. This is not how things played out._

_I didn’t have any time to shield my face or dodge the punch aimed at me. The fist collided with my jawline in a powerful blow._

_I fell backwards, my vision blackening for a second. I was already down when pain exploded though my chin, cheek and head._

_I sat up, dizzy somewhat, and collected some blood from the corner of my mouth. “Fuck, Axl! What was that for!? Fuck!” I spat a mix of blood and saliva. No teeth were broken, but I had bitten myself._

_Ty had to physically contain Axl so he would not jump at my throat again. “You got my girl pregnant, you bastard!” Axl yelled, mad with anger. “Why couldn’t you just leave her alone?!”_

_I wiped some more blood from my lips. “Listen, I’m sorry about Gaïa, but sleeping with me was her decision!”_

_Axl shook Tyrone off of him like a big dog shaking water from its fur. “Gaïa? What does she have to do with any of this?” he fumed. “I’m speaking about Annie!”_

_“Oh…”_

_I just had put my foot, boot included, straight into my mouth. “I never slept with Annie,” I said, for fear_ _of being_ _hit again. “The baby’s yours. Not mine!” I had been too busy humping my own husband during the autumn to pay any attention to his servant wench. Annie had made me promise not to tell Axl about her pregnancy, but he already knew and as sorry as I was for her, right now, the survival of my face depended on me betraying her secret._

_“The baby’s mine?” Axl repeated, as if he was the one who received a punch._

_“Yes, of course it’s yours!” With Olaf’s help, I rose back to my feet. “She told me herself!” I dusted my kilt, making sure to keep a good distance between me and my youngest brother, in case he attacked again._

_“She did?”_

_“I promise it’s the truth,” I assured him. “The rumor that the baby is my spawn of evil is a fabrication of Duncan’s propaganda. And before you ask me, I have no idea where Annie is!”_

_He frowned, still hostile. “Why did you mention Gaïa at all?_

_“No reason,” I lied. “I panicked, okay? You jumped at me like a raging bull!”_

_The audience in the courtyard was enthralled. They came to see a funeral and they witnessed a wrestling match instead. Undoubtedly, they had a good show. Some might even think we staged it._

_The druid cleared his throat and addressed Ty. “My lord, giving the circumstances, should we go on with the ceremony?”_

_Ty gave Axl a glimpse.The youngest Johnson seemed calmer._

_“Yes. I think we should… to honor His Highness’ memory at least.”_

_Then, Ty squeezed my shoulder in sympathy. “I’m sorry about your husband, Anders. Truly. We all mourn his passing.”_

_They couldn’t know John was still alive, and giving my spouse’s current state and location, he was too vulnerable for me to let the entire court know the truth. For now, I would have to lie. “Aye. It’s… tragic.”_

_Ty’s gloved hand increased its gentle pressure. “It is indeed a tragedy for the country, and I’m sure it’s one for you as well. It must be very difficult.”_

_“It sure is.” The scene was so surreal it undermined my acting talents._

_“You must be exhausted from you travel… wherever you come from,” Ty commented, realizing he had no idea where I had been before I showed up. “But I’m sure you want to join us for the funeral.”_

_“Of course.” I had to find within myself all the manipulative fibers of my personality. I searched in my extensive collection of masks for the one of the grieving husband. It should have been an easy one to wear. All I had to do was to think back to the despair I experienced when Mikkel arrived in Brastàl and informed me I would never see John again. To concentrate on that moment was to envision a life where he would never hold me in his arms again or burst into laughter in the crook of my neck. In a way, even if John was still alive, perhaps I had to prepare myself to live in such world._

_I moved along the dais to sit between the druid performing the ceremony and the Lord’s chair._

_As I went past him, Axl bent his head down. He was ashamed of having punched a recent widower in the face. At least, I wanted to believe he was._

_The druid sang in the old Gaelic language a sacred hymn to Väm : John’s tutelary spirit. All of those assembled in the courtyard listened in a respectful silence. Once the song was over, the priests climbed on the pyre and removed the dumaìdh that represented my body. Being alive, my spirit didn’t need to be freed from the earthly realm._

_I leant to my left to slip a question into Ty’s ear: “you decided to have both our funerals the same day?” I don’t know the customs in other lands, but in Aklànd, it’s not common to hold two_ _people’s_ _funerals on the same day, let alone on the same pyre, even when they are from the same family and died at the same time._

_“We thought this was what John would have wanted, for you to be together.”_

_Would John still want that: for us to be united even in death?_

 

_The priest recited several prayers to Väm, pleading the spirit of blood to welcome John in the afterlife. The priests walked in ritual circles around the pyre, twelve times for each moon of the year, and threw across the dumaìdh symbolizing John’s mortal remains, some cleansing water from the temple’s fountain._

_The druid invited those in the audience who wished to bring an offering to the pyre to step forward. Several of them came; men, women and children, carrying flower garlands, threads made out of tree branches, fine potteries filled with wheat, weapons, jewellery… An old man brought a sculpture of the Mitchells’ sigil –a hand holding two arrows, carved out of driftwood._

_As much as this demonstration of loyalty and reverence touched me, I wondered how these people would react when they’d learn John had been alive and well at the Gull’s Nest all this time. One way or another,_ _I a_ _lways found myself caught in some kind of lie._

_The druid handed me a flaming torch. “Maybe you’d like to say a few words before you ignite it”, he encouraged me._

_I took the torch and stood reluctantly. What eulogy_ _could I_ _give to a living man? I stepped down the dais and approached the pyre._

_Suddenly, I saw it: what could have been._

_John was lying there, on the highly flammable dry wood. No sign of life troubled his face. It was handsome as ever, though motionless. No breath made his nostrils flare. His olive skin was so pale in that light… ashen grey. In the nomad camp, so many times I had dreaded to see him like this. So many times I thought he would draw his last breath and die in my arms._

_Hot tears rose in my throat. “This is not real”, I reminded myself._

_On the pyre was just a figure made of rattan and stuffed with rags. And yet, the back of my knees went sweaty and cold. My legs threatened to fail me._

_A hand landed on my shoulder, compassionate but firm. “Anders?”_

_I turned and met Ty’s worried look. I took a deep breath and steadied myself. The crowd waited for me to speak._

_“My husband-“ I began. My voice came out croaky._

_I coughed and started again. “My husband tried to defend his beloved North Hills with everything he had,” I began, loud enough so everybody could hear. The audience drank my words like water after a drought. I fully measured the impact of my speech and chose to use it for a righteous cause. “The men John led to war were ready to give their life for the same ideals he had: protect their fami_ _lies_ _and those who couldn’t defend themselves. Until the end, John was thinking of the women and children that would suffer if he and his men gave up. He inspired people to follow him and to make the sacrifices in his name. Still, I know for a fact that he would have given his own life over and over again to spare every one of his soldiers who fell under his command at Archerwall.”_

_I strengthened my grip around the torch._

_“John had lost his battle, but it doesn’t make it any less heroic. Let’s not forget what he has accomplished. He used all his resources to weaken the enemy. He gave us a chance to continue his work and win this war. The invaders haven’t won yet. This is why we have to follow his example and not give up._ _Let his sacrifice not_ _be in vain”_

_I threw my torch on top of the pyre. The fire spread quickly. The whole thing must have been doused in oil._

_“I sometimes forget John wasn’t only the young man who became my husband,” I added. “He was also a fearsome warrior, an astute strategist and an admirable leader. And this is how I want his people to remember him. This ceremony, tonight, is for us to remember and honor all the soldiers who died to protect us, no matter the title they bore.”_

_The heat soon became unbearable and I retreated with Ty on the dais to watch the flames grow and dance in the night. I hoped my speech had inspired the audience. If a war was soon to be carried against Duncan on one front and against the invaders on another, the people of Aklànd had to be convinced to follow John when he’d return. I scoured through the multiple faces in the crowd to look for any sign of disagreement or hostility and was satisfied to find none._

_At some point, Ty leant toward me. “I don’t mean this as a critic,” he began, which indicated some kind of criticism would follow, “but I have to admit; this sounded more like a political speech than a heartfelt tribute to a cherished spouse.”_

_I huffed. “What were you expecting? Tears and wailing?”_

_“I think I was expecting something more…personal?”_

_I crossed my arms and looked back at the rapidly consuming pile of wood. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.”_

_In our family, my brother Ty had always been the greatest advocate of love marriage. Even before I tied my wrist to John_ _’s_ _, he was already badgering me – telling me that I must keep the door open to developing feelings for my betrothed. After my marriage, the word had then spread that John and I came to make the best of our bed-sharing situation. We never tried to hide it. I always allowed John to be affectionate with me in public. I even returned this attentions more than once, revelling in the look of jealousy in the eyes of others._

 _Having heard of our new-found conjugal bliss, Ty had written to me, inquiring if it was true that his advice had borne fruit. He wanted to hear it from me. I remained quite vague in my answer and never gave him this satisfaction. I still wonder_ _what_ _drove me to act th_ _at_ _way. Perhaps I was ashamed of my own weakness – not having been able to resist John’s charms. Or maybe, the reason was even pettier. Childishly, I disliked the idea of Ty being proven right and me being wrong. Even if circumstances now showed that falling for John had been a mistake, I was still reluctant to let my own family know just how much I had cared for him._

 

_The funeral ceremony lasted for two hours. There were chants and prayers; more offerings being thrown in the fire. Young novice priests from Aklànd temple performed a dance. I lost myself in the contemplation of the graceful lines of their nude bodies. Nice distractions never last long enough._

_When all the prayers were sung and the pyre was just a heap of smoldering coals, the crowd dispersed and servants gathered some of the ashes. They placed it into an urn: a beautiful work of art carved in black granite from the mountains._

_One of the servants brought the urn to me with utmost respect. I refrained from telling him that the urn was full of lies along with the ashes._

_The tradition prescribed that I kept the urn until the next morning. There would be a procession across town to the temple. I would put the ashes in the altar of Väm, along with those of all the other Aklànders who had lived under the protection of that spirit. But John was not an Aklànder. He had to rest amongst his ancestors. I expected my brothers to let me keep the urn until that uncertain future where I’d be able to go back to Brastàl._

 

_I than_ _ked the servant and prepared to follow my brothers and cousin inside when I noticed the lady who had accompanied Axl out of the castle earlier. I had not paid attention to her until now, too busy that I was with receiving greeting punches from my youngest brother._

_She was elegant in her violet, mourning dress. The tartan plaid across her shoulder gave some additional poise to her bearing. She eyed me with a mix of circumspection and friendliness when I approached her._

_I knew the first heiress of Clan Keir since childhood and had always secretly admired her intelligence, strength and savvy ways._

_I bowed down and kissed her hand. “Lady Dawn… I’d say it’s a delightful surprise to find you here, but I must admit I’m all but surprised.” If Ty’s shameless courting had convinced Clan Keir to side with us, I would certainly not complain._

_“I can’t say the same,” she remarked. “Your appearance here is a shock to all of us, Anders”_

_“I’m sorry for spoiling the funerals,” I quipped in good-natured sarcasm. “I just hope that if you’re gracing us with your presence, it means my cold brute of a brother was gentle when he kidnapped you.”_

_She smiled over at her fiancé. “I don’t think we can call it a ‘kidnapping’ if the two parties are consenting.” Once they’d be married, my brother was to be her clan consort. Tyrone joined us and she was the one who put an arm around his waist._

_I envied them with a bitterness that made the wound inside my cheek ache even more. There had been a time when John couldn’t help but rest his hand on my lower back whenever I stood beside him._

_Olaf and Axl approached to listen to our conversation._

_“You won’t regret your choice,” I told Dawn with a wink. “You probably found out by now that Tyrone is well-endowed.”_

_“Enough,” Ty decided, irritated by my lack of decorum. “This is a funeral, for the spirits’ sake!”_

_I nodded. “There’s probably a law somewhere that says you’re not allowed to make lewd jokes when you’re holding a funeral urn,” I conceded. “About that,” I added, growing serious, “I think we should go inside. I need to speak to all of you… in private.”_

 

_***_

 

_“Can’t this wait?” Ty asked, once we were all gathered in the private parlor. “Don’t you want to rest first… and have a bath?”_

_Axl wrinkled his nose. “I agree. No offense, Anders, but you reek.”_

_I closed, latched and locked the doors. “I’m afraid this can’t wait.”_

_The next thing I did was to go to the hearth and remove the lid of the urn. When I started pouring the ashes out into the fire, outraged protests fused from everywhere._

_“Anders!”_

_“Good grief! What are you doing!?”_

_“Have you gone mad? Anders! Stop!”_

_Just a handful of ashes remained at the bottom when Ty jumped forward to pry the urn from me and salvage the little that was left. “What on earth is wrong with you? Have you no respect for your husband’s soul?”_

_“I have plenty of respect for John’s soul,” I protested. “There is just a slight detail you must know about ; he’s not dead.”_

_Four sets of jaw dropped and four pairs of eyebrows raised._

_It’s Ty who was the first to finally say something. “Sorry?”_

_“John is not dead,” I repeated. “That funeral tonight was just one big farce, but I had to let you carry on with it. Nobody can know… not yet.”_

_“What? John’s alive?” Olaf asked, like a man who just woke up from a deep sleep._

_I rolled my eyes. “Yes, that’s precisely what I meant by ‘not dead’.”_

_“That’s not possible,” Axl protested. “I was in Archerwall! I’ve seen everything! The Nomads took him! We all know they don’t keep prisoners alive for more than a few days, especially when the captives are enemy warriors – it’s more mouths for them to feed and they can’t afford that!”_

_Ty put the urn away and grasped the sleeve of my coat. He was the most distraught of the lot. “How? How do you know he’s alive, Anders?”_

_I pulled away from his grip. “Because, believe it or not, I went all the way to the Plains to save his lordly arse and I brought him back all by myself.”_

_“If it’s one of your elaborate jokes, it’s not funny,” Ty warned me with a dark frown._

_“Do I look like I’m bloody joking?”_

_I must have been convincing, because they were clearly starting to believe me._

_“_ _Where_ _is he now?”Axl asked, testing the veracity of my claim._

_“He’s at the Gull’s Nest, but you must keep your mouth shut, all of you,” I pointed a finger at them to make it clear that this was a matter of life or death. “Nobody but the household there knows where he is. And he doesn’t have the most effective protection. Stuart is older than stones and the healer I left with John would probably be blown away like a leaf if the wind was a little too high.”_

_“Why a healer?” Dawn wished to know. “Is he sick?”_

_“He has been, but he’s better now.” I rubbed my face with a deep sigh. I paused long enough to take a seat next to the fireplace. “In fact he’s lucky to be even alive. Those bastard_ _s_ _cut all his fingers off on his right hand. He had only the thumb left.”_

_Axl gasped under his breath._

_Dawn gathered her pale hands on her lap. “It’s terrible.”_

_They didn’t know the half of it and their compassion annoyed me somehow. They weren’t there to see John sweat and cry. But I was there. I held him. I fed him. I cleaned him. And despite my efforts, there was nothing I could do to lessen his pain or to comfort him._

_“The wound festered and he caught a fever,” I carried on. “We went to the surgery school in Rosecliff. It had gotten so bad the headmistress couldn’t save his hand. She had to amputate him just under the elbow. He can’t draw a bow or fight with a sword and shield anymore…”_

_“It’s horrible,” Ty echoed his fiancée’s comment. “How is he taking it?”_

_“Wonderfully, thanks for asking. We speak openly about it around herbal tea each afternoon. He says that my counseling really helps with his physical and spiritual healing.”_

_Ty nodded. “That’s good that you’re both able to discuss it.”_

_Olaf shifted on his seat. “I think he’s being sarcastic, Ty.”_

_“Of course I’m being sarcastic!” I kicked a log with the tip of my boot. It rolled off the wood pile and into the fire. “He takes all of his anger and grief out on me. He’s callous and insulting, and I could no longer take it! That’s why I left the Nest, at least… it’s one of the reasons.”_

_A long silence followed. The fire attacked the log, peeling the bark off. I disliked the pity and judgement I was sure to find in the stares casted on the back of my head, but I didn’t dare turn around to check if I was right. Would they blame me, like John did? Would they call me a selfish coward and a lying fool?_

_They surely knew some parts of the story already, but I had no choice but to tell them what happened – how we had lost Brastàl… and how I had lost my husband’s trust._

_Of course, I knew it would make them react, so, when I narrated the last moments I had spent with Mikkel, how I had drugged him with Olaf’s mushrooms before escaping from Brastàl, I knew this would not sit well with at least some of them._

_“How could you do that to your own brother?” Axl raged, fingers curled into fists and ready to lash out at me again._

_But Ty intervene_ _d_ _and forced Axl to sit down. “He didn’t have a choice, Axl. Mike wouldn’t let him go. He had to get to John before it was too late.”_

_This, I must admit, left me speechless. It was the first time somebody took my defense. Finally, someone understood. If I could have kissed Ty at this moment, I would have._

_I went on with an account of my stay at the temple with the priestesses. Olaf showed special interest in the airidhe, the trance-inducing potion. It was a drug only the druidesses and their priestesses knew how to make. The recipe was passed from generation to generation by oral tradition. They refused to write it down or to tell the male priests about its secrets. I told them how my visions during the trance confirmed that John was alive, hurt and in need of help._

_I left no details out in the story of my ride across the deserted hills, how I was captured by the Nomads at Loch Lileas and brought to their camp._

_Dawn had her hand covering her mouth for most of the part where I described in what horrible conditions I had found my husband, barely alive, stricken with fever…_

_I could tell they disapproved of how I had kept him in the dark as to the fate of his estate and his family._

_“You don’t lie to your spouse about those things,” Ty admonished me._

_The deed was done, and whether they approved of my actions or not, nobody could change anything about it._

_I told them about Michele; the North Hiller woman turned Nomad. I spoke about Herrick and the invaders from the faraway island. I described those men with their pale hair and blue eyes, strikingly similar to mine._

_My audience was too thrilled and upset to interrupt me again. But then, I revealed the truth about my origins, about my mother and my real father; how they tried to flee from their island to protect me from this Norseman shaman who designated me as the next living incarnation of a poetry god. I explained how Herrick, the leader of the invaders, had tried to use me and my status as a semi-god to further his own territorial ambitions._

_“Are you? Are you really the living incarnation of their god?” Axl queried. My brother had never been superstitious, but as any North Hiller, the mere mention of the old divinities was enough to arise some_ _deep-rooted fear._

_“Of course not,” I protested. “This tale was born from the mad ravings of an arsehole who couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer! There is nothing more to it!”_

_“But you’re one of them,” Ty pointed out, “… the Norse people.” There was no form of reproach in his comment, but still a certain amount of uncertainty. He wanted to know what this meant in the great scheme of things._

_“As far as I’m concerned, I’m a North Hiller and a Johnson,” I affirmed. “I was born on this land. I share nothing with the Norse folks, apart from their looks. I don’t speak their language; I don’t share their fate, I don’t know their traditions and I certainly won’t side with them.”_

_The tension in the room eased up a notch. Still, I was compelled to cross my arms and add : “if you don’t trust or believe me, you can kick me out or do like that shithead Lord Duncan and tell everybody I’m a dangerous sorcerer.”_

_“Nobody is going to kick you out.” Ty gave a pointed look at our younger brother to ensure that the whole clan was on the same page._

_Axl eyed me for long seconds, but then he nodded gravely. “Brothers stick together.”_

_I cleared my throat. “I hope you’ll still feel the same when I tell you about Gaïa.”_

_Distrust was back on Axl’s face. “Gaïa? What about her?”_

_“I knocked her up.” Better remove an arrow from a leg in one quick pull._

_I let the words sink and braced myself for any possible violence._

_As expected, he was livid at first. “Excuse me?”_

_“Remember when she ambushed me in my bedroom and took advantage of my body?”_

_“You mean, when you deliberately chose to complicit in her cheating,” Axl growled._

_“I was only an accessory to the crime. You can’t blame me,” I defended myself.  “From what I heard, you weren’t giving her any action between the sheets. It’s no surprise she was ready to throw herself into my bed.”_

_“Anders!” Ty warned me, ready to intervene again in case things turned ugly. “Don’t make it harder for yourself!”_

_Axl flexed his fingers into fists. “You’re a prick.”_

_“I thought w_ _e e_ _stablished that years ago,” I said with a shrug. “Anyway. Gaïa fell pregnant as a result of our… activities, and Mikkel, dear Mikkel, didn’t want me to find out. He feared I would use the baby as an excuse to avoid marrying John.”_

_“Well, that does sound like something you’d do,” Ty pointed out._

_Unfazed, I went on. “Mike sent Gaïa to the Gull’s Nest to give birth. That’s where she remains to this day.” I threw my hands in the air to reaffirm my innocence. “I swear! I only found out a few weeks ago.”_

_“So, she had a child from your blood…” Axl concluded. It was obvious the news didn’t fill him with glee, and even if that story was water under the bridge and he had moved on to another woman, I doubted he would ever forgive me entirely. I could live with that, as long as my face features stayed safe._

_“It’s a girl,” I announced, with a certain sense of pride. “Her name’s Moïra.”_

_“Does she-” Dawn began._

_“Look like me?” I interrupted her.  “Nah… thanks to the spirits she doesn’t. She’ll be able to have a decent childhood ignoring who her genitor is. I don’t think Gaïa has any intention of letting her know about our connection, at least not for many years.”_

_“What does John think about it?” Ty inquired._

_“John’s too busy mopping around to give a fuck, I reckon.”_

_“He’s been through a lot.”_

_“So have I!” I exploded, leaving them all startled. Outbursts such as this were not my style, but here was the new Anders and they better get used to him. I deserved just as much compassion as John did. “The Scarecrow tried to poison me! I’ve been kidnapped by blood-thirsty Nomads and tortured by a megalomaniac Norse chief, “ I reminded them. “I’ve been imprisoned and threatened! I’ve been shot and barely escaped Carraig with my life!” I pulled my hair back to show them the dent in my ear shell. “I’ve been chased by bloodhounds, I starved in the woods for days and let’s not forget that I’m still wanted dead or alive by Duncan’s pals! So, I’ve been through a lot as well!”_

_“Nobody here is a friend of Duncan or agrees with his policies,” Dawn said. “The knowledge that Lord Mitchell is alive makes his usurpation even more unacceptable. As the first heiress of Clan Keir, I vow that my people will fight for the rightful Great Lord.”_

_Somehow, she knew exactly what I wanted and needed to hear._

_The flow of blood in my veins went back to being the tranquil river it was meant to be. I bowed toward her. “It’ll be a pleasure to work with you, Milady.”_

_“And you know the Johnsons will always be the Mitchells’ allies,” Ty assured me, “so whatever John decides, we will follow him.”_

_“For now he’s not in any position to make decisions,” I pointed out. “I’m afraid you’ll be answering to me.”_

_I expected some kind of resistance, but I met none. “It makes sense,” he said. “As long as John’s whereabouts remain a secret, you’re officially our Lord Regent.”_

_I had fled Brastàl not to have to bear that responsibility. I was faced with it once again. I was ready now…. I had to be._

_“We’re not going to wage a war on Duncan tonight, are we?” Olaf asked. “I have to consult the spirits and I don’t have my mushrooms with me.”_

_“I’ve spent four days on the road. We’re not going to take any action tonight, I’m too tired for that.” I stood and patted Olaf on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, cousin. You’ll have to find another excuse to get high.”_

_“You’re right. It’s enough for tonight,” Tyrone decided. “I’ll ask a servant to show you to your room,” he offered me._

_“There is no need. I still know the way. But I’d be grateful if you could send someone to fetch my pet fox in the stables.”_

 

_***_

 

_I found my bedroom clean. Careful ventilating and dusting had kept it in an acceptable state._

_Most of my personal belongings and furniture were gone, sent with me to Brastàl. To fill the empty spaces, the servants had replaced the furniture with pieces from somewhere else in the castle._

_It lacked the homey feeling I had been expecting coming back to my old quarters. I was like a guest in someone else’s spare room._

_The night wind blew from inland, but it was barely strong enough to make the three heavy sets of curtains move. I went over and shut the window._

_I set the candle down on the nightstand and sat on the bed. I had slept in those linen and furs for years. I had pleased many girls there, even conceived a daughter… but that seemed so long ago now._

_Th_ _at_ _didn’t feel like home anymore. Where was home, as a matter of fact? If it wasn’t in Aklànd, was it in Brastàl? I had spent a few moons in the Mitchells’ castle. I was in the process of truly settling down there and finding my bearings, but John had left and I hadn’t been able to complete the process. Home wasn’t the Gull’s Nest either. It embodied memories of my childhood’s summers, but nothing more._

_Perhaps my home was that island where my true parents were born. All I knew about it was tales of its dryness and hostility._

 

_I was hungry and too lazy to go to the bathhouse, so I decided to simply change my clothes.  I remembered I still had a trunk with some garments in a corner of the bedroom. I found a clean shirt, a belt and a red and black Johnson kilt._

_After I had stripped down from my dirty attire and put the shirt on, I spread the five yards of tartan fabric on the floor and kneeled down to pleat it. Before my marriage, I would always ask a servant to take care of that task, but John had taught me there was a certain pride in doing it yourself. Ironically, John was now the one unable to pleat a kilt without help._

_A knock on the door interrupted my progress. Under Ty’s recommendation, four of his most trusted guards would take turns and be at my door night and day to ensure my safety. It annoyed me slightly, but I was still grateful for the protection. The Scarecrow could be anywhere._

_One of the guards entered the room, followed by the young boy who was bringing my fox back._

_Tiolam squirmed and protested so much that the poor stable boy was too happy to drop his burden to the floor and retreat out of the room. The boy was used to horses. Dealing with a feisty carnivorous was not his strongest suit.  Horses had blunter teeth._

_Excited to be in a new environment, Tiolam crawled under the furniture to explore. Five seconds later, sh_ _e ju_ _mped onto the bed and was rolling around on the bear pelts._

_Accustomed to her antics, I went back to my kilt pleating._

_In the morning, I would ask a tailor to cut me a new kilt from the Mitchell tartan. Even though everyone thought my spouse was dead, I was still part of his clan and had to wear his colors. Tomorrow, I’d go back to being a Mitchell in order to remind everybody that John’s clan would not be so easily erased from the map. But tonight, I was only good old Anders Johnson again._

_I laid on top of the pleated fabric, wrapped it around me, fastened the belt and stood, proud of my work and revelling in the sensation of clean and heavy wool on my skin._

 

 _Bored now that she had sniffed every corners of the bed and rubbed off her scent on every bed po_ _st_ _, Tiola_ _m c_ _arried her investigation to the top of an armoire. Wondering how she had even managed to climb there was a mind battle already lost._

_When I had moved out of the castle, I had left on top of that massive oak piece some personal objects I decided to leave behind. Among them, the first fish bowl I ever owned._

_“Get down from there,” I ordered the adventurous vixen. I already envisioned the impending catastrophe._

_Just as I predicted, she knocked over the bowl with her wagging tail._

_“TIOLAM!”_

_It was too late. The fish bowl fell over the edge and I wasn’t quick enough to catch it. I dropped a loud curse when the glass crashed and shattered to the floor._

_A guard rushed in to check up on me, but I dismissed him between gritted teeth._

_Tiolam jumped off the armoire. She knew I was angry. Tail tucked between her rear legs, she ran and hid under the bed._

_With a sigh, I squatted and started collecting the glass pieces, careful not to cut myself._

_This old fish bowl was quite small compared to the one I purchased later and brought with me to Brastàl. That one could hold up as much as ten fish._

_Even though Brastàlers did not understand the custom of keeping live fish in a bowl for the sole purpose of entertainment and aesthetic, John had done his best to please me. Taking the matter in his own hands, he went as far as trying to catch the fish himself. I remembered him, standing in the Eachann River on slippery rocks, holding a net, the bottom of his kilt tucked in his belt and icy water running around his bare calves. Ignoring his own discomfort, he had searched for silver minnows until his feet turned white from the cold. Sadly, John hadn’t calculated that in the last moon of the autumn, the fish had long swam away to the more hospitable waters of the Quigley River._

_It was that afternoon, when he came out of the water, that I kissed John for the first time._

_He had saved my life during the premarital trials. But apparently, what it really took for me to give myself, body and soul, was a man who showed me he was willing to get his feet frozen in a river for something that trivial._

_I swallowed down and it burned, like when you drink whiskey and take too big of a gulp._

_I picked up the last pieces of the broken bowl and found myself at a loss as where to put them. Unconsciously, I had once again done something I should let the servants take care of._

_A knock on the door put me out of trouble._

 

_On the doorstep, Thompson was waiting for me to call him in._

_My former chamberlain was a reliable and honest man, but about as cold as the water of the Eachann River._

_He carried a tray of baked delicacies. He bowed and greeted me in his usual, monotone voice. “I thought maybe you’d want to eat something, my Lord Regent.”_

_“Thank you. You can put it there,” I instructed him, pointing at the bed.  “And I’d like some raw meat for my fox.”_

_He put down the tray where I indicated, rid me of my shards of glass, and left without a word._

_My mouth watered and my stomach growled at the sight of the pastries and the warm blackberry jam. I crashed on the bed and attacked the content of the tray.  I heaved a sigh of ecstasy when the flaky textur_ _e m_ _et my tongue. As delicious as it was, I suspected they had changed something in the recipe because it didn’t quite taste the same._

_Ears upright and whiskers wriggling, Tiolam peeked in from the side of the bed, hopeful I would be willing to share._

_I was still somewhat resentful over the loss of my fish tank, but those supplicating eyes paved the way toward forgiveness. I sampled a corner of the pastry and threw it to the floor. It didn’t make it there. A set of pointy teeth snatched it before it even touched ground._

_Later, Thompson came back with a bowl of chicken innards. This time, he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a young lady-in-waiting I never met before. It took me a minute of confusion before I understood what she was doing there. Her presence was explained by the fact Thompson thought me a widower._

_When I arrived from a long trip or hadn’t found myself a woman to warm my bed for any other reason, my chamberlain usually found a willing lass to fill that temporary position. Thomson rarely made a bad choice. He knew my tastes. Such was his job._

_“Your Grace, may I present to you Miss Leasì MacMillan,” he introduced her. “She is new to Aklànd and travelled here from Keirmoor with Lady Dawn. She expressed the desire to make your acquaintance.”_

_She curtseyed, averting her eyes in a coy manner and exposing to my gaze the milky skin of her cleavage.  She stayed down until I told her she could rise again._

_Thompson handed me the bowl of chicken. I reached down over the side of the bed and slipped it underneath; an offering to appease the creature that lurked in the dark there._

_“Is there anything else you require, Milord?” Thompson asked._

_“No, it’ll be all,” I replied. He took his discreet leave and I was left alone with Dawn’s lady-in-waiting._

_Girls from Keirmoor had the reputation of being modest and chaste by nature. I wondered how true that was._

_After everything Duncan had said about me, I must admit I was surprised and somewhat reassured that there were still some women out there willing to be intimate with me._

_I hadn’t said a word yet. Leasì was playing with the front of her dress, fidgeting despite her will to be patient. I could almost see the anticipation run like a shiver at the surface of her skin. She had a small, upturned nose and looked like the kind of girl who would squeal like a mouse when I’d be inside her.  “I’m not quite sure how this works,” she admitted. “Should I start undressing now?”_

_I stretched my back on the bed. “That won’t be necessary.”_

_“Let me at least remove my petticoat,” she said, undeterred, “or else it’s going to get in the way.”_

_If Keirmoor lassies were truly as chaste as they said, this one might be a notable exception. I didn’t try to stop her this time. She pulled up the skirt of her dress and unlaced her petticoat, making sure to display her legs in the process._

_The wine glass Thomson had brought me with the food tray remained mostly untouched. “Do you want something to drink?”_

_Her light undergarment landed on the floor like a dandelion seed. She smiled. “When it’s offered so graciously, how can I resist?”_

_I stood from the bed and offered the cup to her.  She took the first few sips holding my gaze. A crimson droplet clung to her upper lip._

_Before she erased it with a flick of her tongue, I had turned away to gain the armchair next to the fireplace. I sunk leisurely into my seat._

_“Can I ask you a question?”_

_“Of course, Sire,” she agreed. “You can ask me anything.”_

_“Why are you here?”_

_She frowned almost imperceptibly. “Like the chamberlain told you: I’m here with my mistress, Lady Dawn Keir.”_

_“I don’t mean ‘in Aklànd’,” I rectified. “I mean ‘in my room’.”_

_I expected my question to trouble her somehow, but she was unabashed. She put the cup away on the mantelpiece. “I’m here to please you, Milord.” She came to me and boldly sat on my lap. “Giving the reputation you have among the ladies who live in this castle,” she added, placing a hand on my chest, “I’m sure you’ll find a way to please me in turn.”_

_From up close, her eyes were more chestnut than hazel and her dark hair had a russet hue.  Maybe this was due to the candle light, but it didn’t really matter._

_She looked like the last girl I had held in my arms, and that was you, Moïra. In a little more than a decade, this could be you, flaunting your body to thoughtless noblemen like me, in hope to gain some kind of protection, status or consideration._

_Any attraction I could have felt for Leasì vanished in an instant._

_Her hand had wandered into the neck of my collar and her fingers closed around my pendant. It had the shape of Braìg’s symbol and John gave it to me long ago as a courting gift._

_She pulled it out to admire it. “It’s beautiful,” she said._

_I untangled the leather lace from around her fingers and I put the pendant back under my shirt, out of sight._

_I diverted her attention with a personal question. “Are you married?”_

_“You’re asking me a lot of questions tonight, Milord,” she simpered.  She was still playing the mild-mannered courtesan, but the way she removed her hand that had wandered to my arm betrayed her growing annoyance._

_“Please, humor me,” I insisted._

_“I do have a fiancé,” she admitted. “But don’t worry, he’s in Keirmoor : far away from here.”_

_“Does he know you’re seeking other men’s companionship at night?”_

_She shrugged. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”_

_“You’d be surprised.”_

_I had adopted a similar policy regarding John, but my lies and secrets had soon come back to bite me in the arse._

_Her weight on my legs had stopped being pleasant about as soon as she had sat on me, but she spared me from having to push her away. My last comment was the final straw. It ignited enough irritation for her to leave the chair and my lap_ _on_ _her own accord._

 _She headed for the door, but then she changed her mind and came back toward me. She was trying to blink back tears. I had hur_ _t h_ _er pride.  “What’s wrong?” she asked me upfront. “Don’t you find me pretty?”_

_I rose from the armchair with a sigh. “I do. That’s not the point.”_

_“What is it, then?”_

_I took the wine cup on the mantelpiece and drained what was left of its content. She was waiting for an explanation and would not let me off the hook so easily._

_“I’m just… not in the mood,” I provided. It was a lie. At least a partial one. Of course, I wasn’t made of wood and would have liked to spend the night with someone… But springtime can make unbelievable things sprout in the most unwelcoming soils. It had managed to grow myself a conscience._

_The girl fetched her discarded petticoat and put it back on with brisk movements. She had given up on trying_ _to_ _seduce me. She resented my rejection and gave me a long glare, lips pressed in a thin line. “I never thought you’d be such a prude,” she dropped._

_I had been called a lot of things in my time, some of them well-deserved, but a prude, I was not._

_She had forgotten who she was talking to and was about to be reminded. Before she could see it coming, I hooked my arm around her waist and pulled her against me roughly._

_Her eyes grew wide and she froze. My hold on her was so tight I could feel the panicked drumming of her heart._

_“I could fuck you here and there,” I said, my mouth only a few inches from hers. “I can have your legs wrapped around me in the blink of an eye; those lips parted in a plea for more. I can have you biting, kissing, and everything in between.”_

_A wild blush had crept to her cheeks._

_“But there’s the thing,” I continued. “Come the morning, I can’t care less what happens to you. If we ever cross path again, I’ll pretend I don’t know you. Chances are I won’t even remember your name.”_

_She was holding her breath._

_“Perhaps, it’s exactly what you want: a romp of anonymous sex in the dark just to feel alive and desired,” I whispered. “But this world has become a dangerous one. It’s every man and woman for themselves. And yet, you’ll soon find out that none of us can make it alone. If your fiancé cares about you, you should stick with him. When everything falls apart, he’ll be there for you. I won’t.”_

_I let her go and she stepped back, panting._

_“You should leave now,” I advised her, escorting her out._

_I stood in the doorframe and watched her run away, down the corridor. The guards gave me puzzled looks._

 

_Back in my room, I retrieved the empty bowl under the bed and the beast dwelling in the shadows gave a couple grateful licks to the back of my hand._

_I contemplated the idea of going to bed, but decided against it. My sore jawline kept a vivid memory of Axl’s anger. Beside, being left alone with my thoughts appeared more bearable if I stayed active and didn’t kill the lights._

_I went to the window. It was a calm and clear night. The light of multiple lanterns dotted the long extent of the beach. A few boats were out in the bay to catch the dogfish and cod that came feeding in the shallow waters at night._

_So many times before, from the very same window, I had watched the fishermen drag their boats up and down the sand._

_I was Anders Johnson, dressed in Johnson clothing, in my room of our ancestral castle, and yet I came to the difficult conclusion that the man I was before I left Aklànd to be married didn’t exist anymore. In a way, he was dead. Maybe I should have allowed the priests to burn my dumaìdh on the pyre, after all._

_I came here thinking it would feel the same as if I had never left; that coming back would right all the wrongs the war and the winter brought in their wake. I wanted to be a carefree young man again: an eligible bachelor. It wouldn’t be so. The changes that operated within me and in the North Hills were irreversible. I had to bury the past - not try to re-enact it in hope to grasp an evanescent impression of stability and comfort._

_I was a husband and a father._

_Nothing would ever be the same._

 

***

 

The quiet atmosphere of the bedroom was only tempered by Tiolam’s snoring. In this relative silence, the four knocks on the door came as loud as a battle ram.

Anders jumped. Three drops of ink spilled from the tip of his quill and onto the page. He cursed and took the sponge to blot it before it could dry.

A guard peered in. “Lord Tyrone Johnson is here asking to see you, Your Grace.”

Anders was still concentrated on fixing his mishap. “Let him in.” Unfortunately, the parchment had drank the ink almost as soon as it touched it.

“I saw the light under your door,” Ty said when he walked into his brother’s bedchamber, as an explanation for his presence at such late hour.

“Are you here out of concern or curiosity?” Anders asked dryly.  

“A bit of both I guess.”

“Well, you’re wasting your time. I’m not inclined to satisfy neither of those.”

Used to get rebuffed by his older sibling, Ty wasn’t going to let Anders’ gruffness drive him away. He pulled the armchair closer to the writing cabinet where Anders worked and sat in it without ceremony.  “What are you doing?”

“Writing, obviously.”

“To whom?”

The quill needed to be recut. Anders opened a drawer and found a knife. The blade was too blunt to his liking, but it would have to do. “It’s not a letter per say, it’s more like a memoir.”

Ty sniggered. “I always knew at some point you’d write down your sexual exploits.”  

“And I still think posterity could beneficiate greatly from such book,” Anders agreed, “but this is about something else.”

“Can I ask what it is about?”

He considered telling Ty to mind his own business, but in the end, Anders chose to tell the truth.  “It’s for the wee girl: Moïra.”  

“Your daughter…”

“Technically she’s not, as John kindly reminded me,” Anders corrected. “She’s my… offspring? I don’t know how to call her, to be honest.” He dipped the tip of the freshly-cut quill into the ink jar and put the final period to the last sentence of his page.

“John may be right from a lawful point of view,” Ty pointed out, “but she’s still your flesh and blood.”

“I guess she is. And as such, she deserves to know, when she’s old enough to read this, the reasons for which I left. Maybe she’ll hate me, but at least she’ll know why.”  

“Don’t you have any intention on being a part of your child’s life?”  

Anders sprinkled pounce over the page and then gently shook the excess into the round pounce pot. “I’m no father material, probably never will be. She is better off without me and under her mother’s care. I’m the most wanted man in the country right now. I’m making her a favor by staying away.” In a matter of seconds, the page would be dry enough so he could fold it without smearing the ink.

Before he could put it away, Ty extended a hand in his direction. “May I read it?”  

It was an unusual request, to which, after reflection, Anders decided to give an unusual response. “By all means,” he said, and handed his brother the last page of his memoir, along with the ten previous ones.  

Ty skimmed through the first three pages quickly, but then, he became more attentive and engrossed in his reading. Anders tried not to appear anxious as he watched his brother’s expression and waited for his reaction.

“You look perplexed,” Anders said, when Ty finally reached the end.

“No! I mean …maybe.” He paused, flicking through the pages once more and rereading two or three sentences. “This is very enlightening, in fact. What strikes me, though, is that you say this is for Moïra… whereas, in truth, it’s about John all along. He’s the only thing you really speak about.”

Anders pried the manuscript from his brother’s hands with a huff. “I shouldn’t have let you read it,” he groaned.  

Ty stood, with the air of someone preparing for a duel. He handed his brother his coat. “Follow me,” he ordered, without any form of warning.

“What? Now?”

The young man was already at the door, prompting Anders to come. “I want to show you something.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and sticking around, folks. I know I didn't reply to your comments on the last chapter, but rest assured that I read every single one of them and appreciated them a lot!


	7. Losing Marbles, Finding Pebbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry it took me a while to update, but I wanted to participate in the WinterFre Contest for which I posted two stories. Check them out if you're interested. :)

 

 

“If I had known you’d take me out for a romantic stroll in the garden, I would have brought my lovely, embroidered shawl,” Anders mocked his brother.

Ty’s mouth twitched up, betraying the semblance of a smile. “Shut up and follow me!”

Despite their constraining armor, the two soldiers serving as Anders’ protection did their best to match the brothers’ rapid stride.

Past the gardener’s cottage, the four men took a turn onto the main alley of the castle’s lavish gardens, otherwise known as the Path of the Statues.  In the alcoves formed by the trimmed hedges of rowan and juniper, eight statues guarded each side of the long, moonlit passage.

The four statues to the left represented the siblings who had founded Clan Johnson and built Aklànd Castle: Alban, Deòiridh, Fionnuala and Eimhir Johnson; two brothers and two sisters.  The four apples on the clan sigil also symbolized the four founders of the clan.

Four other statues, allegories of the seasons, faced them on the other side of the alley.  They had androgynous features and appeared male or female depending on the angle taken to look at them. The first one, a personification of the autumn, wore a ritual headgear with deer antlers. The second one, the winter, raised a branch of yew to the sky like one brandished a war flag. The third was the spring and held a bunch of flowers in the crook of their arm. The last one, the summer, balanced a basket of fruit on their head. At the foot of the statues, wild wood anemones offered their petals to the soft, night breeze.

Anders stuck his ink-stained hands into the pockets of his coat. This truly was a lovely night. Its atmosphere invited the walkers to meditate and introspect. Anders, though, wanted anything but to dive in his inner self.  

“We should go to the ale house on Quay street,” he offered.  

Tyrone gave him a skeptical glance. “Given the circumstances, are you sure you want to be in a crowded tavern, surrounded by strangers with pocket knives in their sporrans?”

Anders put a hand over his chest, as if to shield himself from an imaginary stabbing attempt. “You’ve got a point there,” he conceded. They reached the end of the main alley.

When Ty headed toward the wooden bridge over the water garden, Anders understood where his brother was leading him.

“The mausoleum? Really? Is that where you’re bringing me? I much preferred your idea of going to the tavern.”   

“The tavern was your idea,” Ty pointed out calmly.  

“Oh, yes. I just remembered I’m the fun one.”  

Built on a small island in the middle of the garden’s widest pond, the wooden bridge was the only way to the family’s mausoleum. Despite centuries of harsh weather, the dome-roofed turret still stood strong. Anders always had a special dislike for the place. As they crossed the bridge, he questioned Ty again. “Seriously, why are we here?”

“You’ll see,” Ty replied. “Patience never was your strongest suit, was it?”

Anders scoffed. “I never achieved anything useful by being patient.”

Their intrusion in the peace of the water garden scared a couple of frogs that leaped into the water and hid under the freshly sprouted water lilies.  The two noblemen, helped by the guards, entered the mausoleum through the heavy elm door.

A spiral stairwell led to the second floor balcony, and even if some moonlight came in from the top of the stairs, it was still pretty dark inside.  While the soldiers were busy lighting the oil lamps and hoisting them back to the ceiling, Anders sulked.

The priests came often to clean the memorial house of the Johnson ancestors. The air inside wasn’t stale as someone could expect in a place like this. Not a single speck of dust was left on the floor. It wasn’t a horrible place to be, per say, but this wasn’t where Anders had imagined spending his first night back in Aklànd.

“You can wait for us outside,” Ty instructed the guards.

The turret had a circular shape, just like a temple, and the outer structure was built with the same chalk-white limestone as the castle. Inside, though, part of the interior wall appeared black, as if a builder had begun constructing a second layer of black granite blocks, along with the existing limestone wall, and had not yet finished the job. This second wall was in fact built with funerary urns piled on top of one another.

The urns, of course, were empty. After the ashes had been poured into the temple’s altars, the clan kept the urn and placed it here to remember the deceased.  Every new death added a brick to the family wall.  The visible side of each urn displayed the apple tree sigil, carved into the granite, along with the name of the departed and, sometimes, another personal symbol, often the one of the person’s tutelary spirit.

On the most recent part of the wall, Anders spotted his mother’s urn. It was an easy one to locate, since Astreed Johnson was the only one who bore only two names and had no known tutelary spirit. According to Johan, his second wife was twenty-five when she died, giving birth to Anders. _“That’s John’s age,”_ Anders mused, turning away from the upsetting sight.

“What were you so eager to show me?” he asked his young brother.

Ty went to the section of the wall where Anders was staring only a few seconds ago and he squatted down to show him one at the bottom, not far from Lady Astreed’s.

 In the dim light, Anders read the name carved there: “ _Callann Erwin Arner MacGregor Johnson.”_

“Do you know who that is?” Ty asked.

“Aye, I do. That’s ‘Uncle Callann’, though I can never remember exactly how he was related to us.”

“He was in fact Father’s uncle,” Ty explained. “Erwin Johnson, our great-grandfather, had three children. Our grandfather, Leir, was his eldest and his heir. He also had a daughter, Lady Mairis, and another son, Callann.”

“So, Callann was our great-uncle,” Anders concluded.  

“Exactly.”

Anders gave a sniff of impatience. “Well, that genealogy lesson is highly edifying, but why exactly are you telling me this?”

Ty rose back to his feet. “Because his life and yours have interesting similitudes.”

“Which are?”

“First of all, he’s the last male of our family who married a man...before you, of course.”

 That revelation left Anders pondering. “Is he? It’s funny, I don’t remember him with a spouse… or even speaking about one for that matter. Remind me who he was married to?”

“He was married to Ian Brenn, the son of a city governor. You don’t remember him because he died before you and I were even born, and Uncle Callann never spoke about him.”

Anders leant back against one of the columns that supported the ceiling. “It was an arranged marriage, I suppose.”

“Yes. They got married when they were in their late teens.”

“How do you know all that if he never spoke about it?”

“Because I was with Uncle Callan when he died,” Ty provided. He marked a pause, long enough to pace around the mausoleum. “I was sixteen,” he recollected when he completed the circle and came back to where Anders stood. “You were all gone on a hunting trip, and apart from Uncle Calann, I was the only one of the family to remain at the castle. As you probably remember, he had been sick and bedridden for months. One night, he suddenly took a turn for the worse. Since I was the only Johnson available, the healers came to fetch me, so Uncle would not be alone in his last hours.”

Anders looked at the tips of his boots. “Hm. It must have been…” He didn’t finish his sentence. Words failed him. He felt a great discomfort in any conversation or circumstances that reminded him of his own ordeal at the nomad camp, when he had to look after John in his illness.   

“It wasn’t that bad,” Ty said. “He was weak, but for the most of it, he was conscious and still able to talk. Because I was a curious and stupid youngster, I asked him if he was afraid of dying.”

“And? What did he say?”

“He said no. He said he wasn’t afraid because dying meant that he’d be reunited with Ian. They had been married for six years before Ian passed away and from what I understood, apart from their mandatory wedding night, they weren’t lovers in the classical sense of the word. I think Callann, at first, would have wanted them to be, but Ian wasn’t interested in being physically intimate with anybody – men or women. Callann respected his husband’s boundaries, but it didn’t prevent them from forming a strong bond and developing a deep mutual affection.”

The air was cold in the mausoleum and Anders stuck his hands in his pockets again to warm the tips of his fingers. “That’s great for them, but apart from the fact they were both men brought together by an arranged marriage, I don’t see many similarities with my experience.” If his own relationship with his husband was currently a chaste one, it wasn’t because of the lack of interest in sex. Sex, however, required a certain amount of trust from both parties, and between Anders and John, that trust had been broken.

“I forgot to mention that just like John, Ian had only one hand,” Ty informed him. “He was born with one of his arms atrophied and unusable. But this deformity didn’t matter to Uncle Callann. He told me his husband was the best friend he ever had.  But then he fell gravely ill. No healer could tell why, but his lungs were filling with water. He was drowning from the inside. Ian died holding his hand and Uncle never remarried after that. He told me he didn’t see the point since he had lost his soulmate already and he wasn’t going to find him anywhere in the world of the living.”

“That’s sad,” was Anders’ only comment. He was still on his guard somewhat, wondering what was the true purpose of this nightly visit to the mausoleum.

Ty waited, but he soon figured out he would not be able to coax any more reflections out of his brother. “Well, that’s food for thought, don’t you think?” He took the stairs and Anders fell into steps behind him. “It means there is a chance you can get used to John’s handicap and learn to love him again despite that.”

They emerged on the second floor. Opened to the four winds, the whole floor was a roofed pavilion that offered a view on the surrounding gardens.

Anders turned to his brother with a frown.  “You think the loss of John’s hand is my main concern? You think I’m that shallow?”

“Come on, Anders! I’ve seen you rejecting women because their breasts were not perfectly even.”

This time, Anders didn’t try to defend himself. He walked to the edge of the balcony and rested his forearms on top of the iron wrought railing.  “With John, it’s different,” he said quietly, mostly for himself.

Ty joined him and leant over the railing by his side. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Anders gave him a sidelong look. “I’m still trying to figure out what you want from me… Why is it so important for you that I stay with John anyway?”

“Because…” Ty hesitated. “Because I need the Great Lord’s blessing to marry Dawn.”  

“I knew it!” Anders pointed an accusatory finger at his younger sibling. “I knew you brought me here to ask a favor! So that was the real purpose of your sob story about Uncle Callan, wasn’t it? You think that because my own marriage is going down in flames, I’m going to do everything in my power to sabotage your chances at getting one!”

Ty shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. “Well, I don’t know. Are you?”  

Anders snorted with derision. “Trust me, right now my priority isn’t to prevent you from getting laid.”

“So,” Ty asked, tentative and sheepish, “are you going to help me? Could you maybe write to His Highness and ask him?”

Anders had his brother under his power and if he wanted, he could make him do about anything. Ty was ready to go to amazing lengths to be with Dawn, and now that all depended on Anders’ goodwill. But using that kind of power was exhausting and Anders was too tired to try and take advantage of it. “I can always try to send a letter, but I’m afraid I’m far from being John’s favorite person right now.”

“You used to be, though.”

Anders sucked on the inside of his cheek, where Axl’s punch had left a wound. “I’d prefer if we avoided that subject altogether.”

“What subject?”

“My estranged husband and former paramour.”

Ty nodded. “Do you want to play a game of Easga instead?”

“Why not?” Anders welcomed the change of subject by moving to the stone table and benches a little further on the balcony.

Easga was a popular game in the North Hills. The players needed six dices, six pawns and a representation of the wheel of seasons, with the different moons and weeks devoted to the fifty-two spirits. Poor people drew the wheel on paper or even painted it on tree bark to be able to play. Anything could be used as pawns – coins, acorns, rocks. Others played at the local temple – using the painted wheel on the floor and pine cones as pawns. Priests usually tolerated gamers in their walls, unless the game was cause for brawls or disputes.

The Easga table in the mausoleum was inlaid with precious stones and the dices made of walrus ivory. Ty retrieved from a concealed compartment in the foot of the table, a box that contained twelve agate marbles. He handed the six red ones to Anders, keeping the green ones for himself.

Anders ran his fingers over the calendar wheel, carved in the surface of the table and the intricate spirit symbols. You had to have experienced starvation, cold and fear to understand the uselessness of such niceties. He still loved them. He just saw them through different eyes. “Do you want to start at the current or at the New Year?”

“Current,” Ty decided. “I always lose when I start on the New Year.”

“As you wish, but you’re going to lose anyway.”

Since Ty was younger, he would be the one to start. Anders observed his brother as he aligned his marbles in the hollowed section of the calendar marking the week of the Oak spirit.

“Since when are you good at games? Now that I think about it, I don’t remember ever playing a game of Easga with you…”

“When your mother had her grip on me, she didn’t allow me much time for leisurely activities,” Anders reminded his brother. “Besides, I’ve discovered I’m indeed quite good at the games that rely on strategy as well as luck. John taught me some card games during our honeymoon in Eelry.” As soon as the words passed his lips, he regretted them. The memory stung. He was like a fish with a hook stuck in its throat. The fishing line inevitably pulled him back to painful images of a happier time – the trout reeled out of water and into deadly air.

Now there was no way Ty would drop the subject. And as expected, as soon as he had rolled the dices, he questioned him again. “I already know a chill came upon your relationship with John because you lied about Duncan taking Brastàl, but I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything…”

“Since when do I tell anyone everything?”

Ty carefully chose which valor of his dice roll he would apply to which marble. “I’ve seen you upset before. I’ve seen you grumpy and downcast but this is different.” He made his choice and it was Anders’ turn to place his marbles on the table and play.  

“Call it ‘forlorn” if you must, though I always hated that word: it sounds like a skin disease.” The dices rolled in his favor, giving Anders the right values to get ahead of his brother in a race around the calendar. He trapped one of Ty’s marble between two of his own, which meant his brother lost that one. “Listen, if you insist on making me delve into the dark nooks of my conjugal life, I’m going to need alcohol,” Anders hinted.  

Ty hailed one of the guards and sent him to fetch a bottle of port wine. This showed just how determined he was to make Anders talk.

They played in silence until the guard came back. Anders managed to eat half of his brother’s marble pawns, but one of Ty’s pawn had distanced him, and if it completed a whole year around the calendar before Anders got there, Ty would still win.

Out of precaution against poisoning attempts, the guard showed Anders that the bottle’s seal was intact before he opened it and poured it for his masters. The port wine was sugary; thicker and redder than blood. Anders licked his lips with content after the first sip.

“At the beginning, I wanted to hate John, you know,” Anders confided to his brother once the guard had gone back to his duty and the warm sensation of the port wine settled in his veins. “I really did, but he turned out to be the most seductive piece of arse, and he courted me relentlessly until I gave up and I gave in… and gods, did I give in! But now that I think about it, that phase only lasted for a moon. Then, John left with his army and for the five moons that followed, all I’ve been doing is suffering for him, with him, because of him.”

It was Ty’s turn to play, but he was lost in thought, running his forefinger around the foot of his glass. “What weighs most in the balance do you think: your first moon of happiness or the five that followed?”

“I don’t know, to be honest.” _Maybe I’m holding on like an idiot to something that was never meant to be,_ Anders thought.

“Isn’t that the moral of Uncle Callann’s story, though? In the end, the only thing that truly counted was the time he spent with his spouse. Even the hardest moments of their life together: he still cherished them.”

Anders pushed the dices toward his opponent. “Are you going to play or what?”  

The thrill of the game distracted them for a while, but Anders’ mind was running in circles around the confession he had made. Maybe it was the wine, the hypnotizing song of the frogs or the soft darkness of this spring night, but he felt like he could tell Ty many things he would otherwise not dare say out loud. “When John left Brastàl, I had a kind of weird mental breakdown. One night, I even cried in his bathrobe. Can you imagine that?”

Ty burst in surprised laughter. “Who are you and what did you do to my brother?”

“It wasn’t my proudest moment,” Anders admitted with a shake of his head.  

He had only three pawns left. He rolled three dices and got three sixes. He still stood a chance of gaining on his adversary.

“I have a feeling that I’m going to regret asking you that question,” Ty began carefully, “but how was it... to sleep with the Great Lord?

It was Anders’ turn to laugh. “Gods! Sex with a man is much more intense than with any female! You’ve no idea! If only I had known, I would have tried that way earlier!”  

“Maybe it’s not so much about the fact he’s a man,” Ty theorized, “but rather because it was the first time you had sex with someone you actually cared for.”

“If you say so…”

 Anders’ marbles were on the heels of Ty’s fastest one, but that also made him vulnerable to have them eaten if Ty decided to play aggressively. “Did you know that when we arrived in Brastal before my wedding, I had a tiff with Mikkel and complained about the fact I was the one betrothed to Lord Mitchell and not you?”  

He expected Ty to make fun of this whole idea and find it preposterous, but his brother’s face was serious. “Yes, Mike told me about that. Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? John and I are closer in age,” he pointed out. “It would have been an honor for me to marry a man of his status, but it wasn’t my destiny. Besides, I saw the way John acted during your first official introduction in the courtyard. He just couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

Anders waved in dismissal. “Aye, but that’s only because I was the one engaged to him.”

“Nonsense,” Ty objected. “It was lust at first sight: plain as day. Even if I had been his fiancé, I’m convinced he would have still ended up taking you as a lover on the side.

“Bugger!” Anders cursed, when Ty eliminated one of his three miserable remaining pawns. “The irony is that I would have probably never fallen for him if the fact we were bound by marriage in the first place hadn’t forced me to make an effort to get to know him.”  

“Are you sure about that?”                

“Well, we’ll never know, will we?”

How different things would be now if John had married Ty instead of him, Anders wondered? Would he feel any jealousy at the sight of John holding Ty’s hand in public? Would he feel anything at all? John had told him once he would have never been completely happy with Ty, because the two of them were too similar. Was John still thinking the same way, or was he just unhappy because Anders and he turned out to be just too different in the end?

Anders had just two marbles left, but he had managed to make some progress while shielding them from Ty’s attacks.

“I think John was really sentimentalizing our union from the beginning,” Anders mused out loud. “He saw what he wanted to see in me. The moment I stray an inch from this picture perfect husband he envisions for himself, his ‘love’ for me vanishes. He’d like me better if I was content just to be decorative… and also raised an heir and a spare to ensure the survival of his lineage.”

“Obviously, you still love him despite everything,” Ty remarked.  

“Do I, though? Is it supposed to be this awful?” Anders rolled the dices. He got a three and a two. With that kind of numbers, he wasn’t going to win. “Sometimes I wish I could ‘unfeel’ what I feel for him. It would make everything a lot easier.”

“If he loves you, he’ll come to his senses.”

“Sometimes I wonder what is stronger in John: his love or his pain and his rage.”

“Love conquers all,” Ty said, like enunciating a universal truth.   

Anders pushed the younger man’s shoulder playfully. “You, brother, have not changed at all. I wish I had your faith.”  He poured some more wine into his glass. Around the mausoleum island, frogs engaged in a concert of croaks, calling out for potential mates.  Anders imagines Ty as a frog, croaking to call Dawn from across the pond. The image made him smile.

“I’m scared, you know,” Ty confessed gravely, when he finished moving his marbles on the game table and handed the dices to his brother.

Anders sighed. “Who isn’t these days?”

“The march of time suddenly accelerated, haven’t you felt it? The hours seem shorter. It’s like our life expectancy is shrinking at an alarming pace. We can’t be sure if we’re going to live to see the next season. This is why I have to marry Dawn. I want to know the bliss of being hers before it’s too late; even if our union has to last a moon or even a day.”  

“You don’t have to marry her to be hers,” Anders hinted. “All you have to do is get naked, knock on her door and make your cock her destiny.”

Ty ignored the comment. He had lived with Anders long enough to know when it was better not to give him any attention. “Marriage is a commitment- it’s the surest way for me to assure her of my undying love.”

“Mike always says marriage doesn’t have anything to do with love.”

“No offense to him, but Mike is wrong.”   

Anders shook his head. “Nah. I think, for once, that he’s right. I found out ruling a clan is like running a business. Take John and I, for example. We have spoilt what could have been a perfectly viable partnership with feelings.”

The dices rolled in his favor and by a stroke of pure luck, Anders won the game.

The brothers finished their glasses of port and, leaving the dead to themselves in the mausoleum, made their way back to the castle in silence.

Anders returned to his bedchamber and despite Tiolam’s warmth under the covers, he spent one of those sleepless nights where no position is comfortable enough.

 

***

 

The next morning, in the early hours, Anders came down to the beach, surrounded by trustful guards, for a much-needed walk to clear his head. Alcohol had always been the answer to most questions in his life. Now he had to find other ways to cope.

The wavelets sucked the sand from under the sole of his boots, leaving a circle of foam around his feet.

Anders bent down to pick a round, flat pebble. He already had a few similar ones in his sporran and, after he dried it on his kilt, he added this one to the collection.

He lifted his head when one of the four guards spoke.  “What is that?” The man was pointing at something farther up the beach.

The others squinted to try and see what it was. They walked closer.

All that was left of the mysterious object was a smoking, carbonized wood cross, some pieces of burnt fabric still stuck to it and swaying in the wind.

“That’s a burnt scarecrow,” Anders said calmly.

Alarmed, the highest-ranked guard drew his sword and his men imitated him. “We should get back to the castle immediately, Your Grace; for your safety.”

Anders collected two more pebbles, dusting dry sand off them. “There is no hurry. The people who burnt that thing to send me a message certainly didn’t stay around to be identified.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” one of the youngest guards asked him.

Anders cast his gaze seaward. A mass of nimbus clouds gradually obscured the sky. The ocean darkened, tuning each wave into a sharp, steel blade. “I no longer have the luxury to be scared.”

 

***

Anders pecked at the table with the tip of his quill. If Olaf didn’t show up in the next few seconds, he would start the meeting without him. Five more minutes passed and Anders was on the verge of giving up when the door opened and his cousin appeared. Olaf was out of breath, eyes glassy and lost.

“You’re late.”  

“I come bearing good news,” the oracle announced pulling a chair and sitting at the table with the rest of his family. “Last night, I was tripping on mushrooms and-“ He interrupted himself abruptly and spent the next dozen of seconds scanning the ceiling and the walls. “Oh, I like what you’ve done with the room.”

“We haven’t done anything with the room,” Ty said with a frown. The private parlor was just as it was the night before; just as it had been for at least the last three generations.

“I think he’s still tripping on mushrooms,” Anders made an educated guess. “Now, you said you had good news?”

“Oh, yes,” Olaf remembered, “during my trance, I had a vision, an insight of how we should proceed to liberate Brastàl. We should gather an army and circle the city and force Duncan to retreat inside. And then, we wait for his supplies to run out.”  

Anders rolled his eyes. “Yes, that’s what we call a ‘siege’. If we march on Brastàl, which, I think, was the plan all along, it’s more than likely that we’ll end up besieging the place. I don’t see how that is helpful at all.”

Olaf lifted his hands to assert his innocence. “I’m only the spirits’ humble messenger.”

“And they’re very fortunate to have you at their service,” Anders grunted. He leant toward Ty to ask him discreetly: “Remind me again why the Druid promoted him oracle?”

“I guess it’s because he’s a Johnson,” Ty murmured back, “and the druid felt like he had to give him some kind of important status…”

“Aye, that would make sense.”

With Axl’s and Dawn’s help, Anders unrolled a large map of the North Hills on the table. Once spread, the map covered almost the entire length of the table. “Let’s get to work!”

On the pebbles he collected earlier on the beach, Anders had traced the symbols of the nine clans with white paint: the tower for the Fergusons, the helmet for the MacCallums, the cup for the MacGregors, the hawthorn flower for Clan Blackwood, the iron horse hoof for the Douglas, the ship sail for the Keirs, the bird wing for the Duncans, and, of course, the apple tree for the Johnsons and the hand and arrows for the Mitchells. “This way, we have a more visual state of the forces in presence,” he explained.

Anders had already placed the Nomads and the Norse in the South, on the bank of loch Lileas. Since they had no sigils to speak of, he had drawn a bunch of grass for the Nomads and a penis for the Norse. “Because Herrick is a prick,” he told Ty when his brother pointed at the painted stone with an eyebrow raised.

Then, Anders took the pebble with the tower drawn on it. “The Fergusons are pretty much decimated. The last time I saw Lord Ferguson, he was hanging off a rope down his castle’s tower. But since the clan consort and a few warriors found shelter in Maverrick, let’s assume they’re still there and on Duncan’s side.” He dropped the pebble on the map, over the capital city of the Duncans’ land.

“Duncan’s undeserving arse is still on Brastàl’s throne, so let’s put him there, along with his spineless minions,” he added, placing the Duncans in Brastàl, along with the MacCallums and the MacGregors.  

“But we don’t know for sure how many soldiers they have with them,” Ty said, pointing at Brastàl.

“That’s true,” Anders admitted. “They were just twenty or so when they arrived, just before I escaped, but more of the army were following on foot.”

Axl bent over the table to study the map. “From what I’ve heard, Duncan is also recruiting mountaineers by force and enrolling in his army,” he added, trailing his fingers from the mountain range in the West to the center of the map. “That’s what the reports say, but it’s hard to get accurate numbers. Duncan brings more mountaineers in Brastàl every week.”

“Let’s not forget that those mountaineers are mere shepherds who never held a proper sword in their whole life,” Dawn reminded them. “Even in the eventuality we are outnumbered, if we have seasoned soldiers under our banner, we still have the advantage.”

Axl drummed his fingers over a used corner of the map. “Where are we going to find them, those seasoned soldiers?”

Anders turned to submit the problem to Ty. “How many men can we raise on our land?”

“I’d say about 300… 350 at the very best.”

“And in Keirmoor?”

“Not more than 150 I’m afraid,” Dawn estimated. “We lost great many men in Archerwall.”

Anders placed the pebble representing the Keirs on their capital city, Keirmoor.  Then, he put the Johnsons and the Mitchells in Aklànd, even if all that remained of the Mitchell’s military force was in Brastàl and now under Duncan’s control.  When analyzed coldly and factually, with a map under their eyes, their situation looked dire. He took a deep breath. “It’s not enough. We need other clans.”

Dawn stood and reached for the last two pebbles. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Anders encouraged, pushing them toward her.

She kept the pebbles inside her closed fists for a moment, thinking. “The Douglas Clan and the Blackwoods are the most likely to become our allies, but despite the fact Axl is promised to Abigail Blackwood and that the Douglases are close relatives of His Highness, they are going to need a lot of convincing to take our side.”

Axl made a sour face at the mention of Abigail. He wasn’t happy with the arrangement and hated to be reminded of it.  

“Dawn,” Anders sighed, disappointed she couldn’t shed a more hopeful light on their situation.  “I was rooting for you!”  

“I know, but this is how things are,” Dawn said, unapologetic. She put the pebble with the painted horse hoof on the main city of the Douglas land: Linden. “The Douglas clan still control the entrance of the Lileas river. This makes them a likely target for the invaders. They won’t want to send too many soldiers away, in case they have to defend Linden.”

Much to Anders’ despair, she was making a very good point.

Dawn shifted her attention to the North of the country : to the city of Firness. “The Blackwoods will hesitate to side with us, because their main trade route is the Eachann river, and which city does the river links them with directly?”

“Brastàl,” Anders dropped, flatly.  

“Yes.”

The enterprise proved to be far more complex than he anticipated. It should have been a piece of cake, compared to many other things Anders had accomplished during the winter: escape Carraig, for example. “ _What would John do if he were in my shoes? How would he handle this?”_

Anders wasn’t the only one to perceive the difficulty of the task. “Furthermore,” Ty added, “if Robert Duncan convinces the clans he is the one who’s going to protect them from the Norse invasion, they won’t want to go against him.”  

Impatient, Axl kicked one of the table legs with a huff. “Why don’t we just do the job ourselves? We should go to Brastàl and kill Duncan. We don’t need anybody else. Anders knows a secret passage into the castle. It takes only one man to kill another, after all.”

“We’re not going to do that because it’s a highly dangerous and idiotic idea,” Anders decided. “Now that I’ve officially come out of the shadows, don’t you think Duncan isn’t already watching our every move?”

The tension in the room was palpable.

Unperturbed, Dawn slid the Blackwood and Douglas pebbles across the map until they were on the circle representing Aklànd.  “The only solution is convincing those two clans that siding with us is in their best interest.”

Ty nodded in agreement. “We’re going to have to call a war council.”

Anders sucked on his teeth and scoffed. “A war council, really?”

“Yes, a war council,” Axl said, defending Ty’s idea, “and it should be as soon as possible.”

Anders crossed his arms and eyed his brothers with disapproval.  “Do you know what I’m looking at right now?”

“No.”

“Two half-wits having the lamest idea in the history of thoughts. Haven’t you heard what I’ve just said?”

The insult, though not unexpected coming from Anders, still had Ty frowning. “I thought going to war was the plan. How’s calling a war council a lame idea exactly?”  

“Because it’s going to land everybody involved in shit.”

“We’d lose the element of surprise,” Dawn reflected.  

“Exactly.” Anders walked around the table to stand closer to Dawn. “If we call a war council, Duncan will surely hear of it, and what do you think he’s going to do?”

“Threaten or bribe the lords so they’ll turn from us…,” Ty whispered in understanding. “But if a war council is out of the question, what should we do, then? How are we going to convince the lords to follow us if we can’t meet with them?”

“I don’t know,” Anders admitted, shaking his head, “but definitely not with a war council!”  

Dawn had a suggestion to make. “Why don’t we invite the clans to a wedding instead?”  

Everyone paused to consider this possibility.

“This is actually a genius idea!” Anders exclaimed. His gaze wandered over the expanse of the map and the more he thought about it, the more excited he got. It simply was the best idea anyone could have come up with. The law forbade any Lord to arrest a fellow clansman during wedding celebrations. Anders and John had been condemned in absentia for treason and sorcery, but they’d have diplomatic immunity and would be protected from Duncan arresting them until after the wedding. Also, it gave the Johnsons a perfectly legitimate excuse to send out invitations for the clans to come to Aklànd. All they had to do now was  find a way to hold an unofficial war council in secret. They’d send out invitations to Clan Duncan and his allies, knowing that the Lords would not come themselves, in this time of crisis, but send people of their families instead. Anders was confident they’d be able to keep the Duncans, MacCallums and MacGregors drunk and in check while they carry their seduction campaign on the Douglas clan and the Blackwoods.

“Since Lady Dawn has more brains than the whole Johnson clan reunited,” Anders decided, ”she’s the one I’m going to work with from now on,” He pointed his fingers at his brothers and showed them the door. “You two are dismissed.”

Ty attempted to resist the eviction. “But-“

“No ‘but’,” Anders cut his off. “Get out of my sight.”  

Axl narrowed his eyes, but he had already started to collect his things. “You’re such an arse…”

“An arse who’s also your liege,” Anders reminded him. “Now, scat! And take Olaf with you. Oracle is synonym with ‘useless’, apparently.”

Ty woke Olaf who had fallen asleep in his chair and they left the room, leaving Anders alone with Dawn.   

Despite the sudden promotion, she looked unhappy. “I agree to work with you under one condition,” she warned him.  

Anders leant back against the table, cocksure and smiling. “Whatever you want, my lady.”

“I want you to stop calling my future husband a dimwit.”  

“Ah, you’re so cruel,” he complained in mock-despair. “How dare you deprive me of my last pleasure on this earth?”  

She gave him an insistent glare.

“Fine! I won’t call him that anymore. Are we good?”

They shook hands to seal the deal. Anders would have to find more creative insults in the future.

They resumed their work and crafted wedding invitations for all the clans, with carefully chosen words. By the end of the afternoon, the letters were ready. The only thing missing to make them official was Ty’s signature.

Anders brought the letters to his brother’s room after supper.

Ty signed, put down his quill, affixed all the seals and handed the stack of paper back to Anders. “Are you planning on writing to John soon? Because I’d really like to have his blessing before I inform the court about the wedding.”

“And I’d really like a hand job,” Anders replied tit for tat,” but we can’t always get what we want, can we?” He turned on his heels and exited Ty’s apartments.

Later, after much battling with himself, he begrudgingly sat at his writing desk and wrote to his husband.

Stuart and Anders had agreed on a code so Anders could write to John without raising any suspicion in case the letter was intercepted. Anders was to refer to John as his “cousin”.

The letter he wrote that night was as impersonal as it was brief.

_Dear cousin,_

_I’m probably the last person you want to hear from, but my younger brother is getting married soon and your blessing is important for him._

The letter left on a ship with the first tide the following morning, along with the invitations for the clans.

A week and a half passed. Anders burrowed himself deep under work to avoid thinking about certain things. With Dawn, they studied maps of the city and the castle, trying to find the best locations to hold secret meetings with the chieftains while they’d be there.

Dawn proved to be helpful, clever and savvy. Anders now wondered how he thought he would ever manage to wage a war against Duncan without her inputs.

Positive responses from the clans started to arrive through the marine and horsemen postal services. Clan Keir confirmed they would attend the wedding. This wasn’t a surprise since the bride was their first heiress. The Blackwoods would also come. Robert Duncan’s sister wrote back to say she’d represent the family, which meant the MacGregors and the MacCallums would also send some of their people.

They also got news from Mikkel ; a short note congratulating the fiancés and indicating he would not be able to travel to Aklànd to attend the ceremony.

“This is just Duncan keeping us by the balls,” Axl commented when they all gathered around the fireplace in the private parlor that same night. “Mike would never miss Ty’s wedding. He’s held in Brastàl against his will. Duncan keeps him as a guarantee in case we’re trying to plot against him.”

“We’re going to have to be very careful,” Anders mused.

They were careful already. Dawn had written the invitation to the Duncans calling their chieftain the ‘Great Lord of the North Hills’ as a ruse to convince him the Johnsons were ready to accept his leadership.

However, a response from John still had to arrive.  Anders’ heart picked up speed every time a servant brought him a sealed envelope. He waited for an answer just as much as he dreaded one. This constant ambivalence caused Anders to close off to everybody around him and to put up his usual front of sarcasm and wit to hide his true state of mind. He had a few conversations with Ty during that week, but the brothers didn’t get to recreate the openness and honesty of their talk on the terrace of the mausoleum. The moment had just passed.  

 

***

 

On the last day of the week of Nèp, the river spirit, Anders was in the castle’s library, utterly bored by a treaty of diplomacy. Purposeful steps in the hallway made him close the book, in hope for any distraction possible.

Ty appeared, waving an envelope. “You asked me to bring you any mail from the Gull’s Nest. This arrived this morning on a merchant vessel from Faoileag.”

Anders’ blood rushed to his feet. “What does it say?”

“I haven’t opened it.”  

Anders hurried to his brother and snatched the letter out of his hands. “Give it to me!”  

The letter was addressed to Ty, or so the writing on the enveloped said.  It wasn’t John’s handwriting however, as far as Anders could tell. The hand that traced the letters was shaky and unsure. It could still be from John, giving the fact he had lost his good writing hand to the surgeon’s knife. However, the big letters indicated a poor eyesight. Stuart was most likely the writer.

Anders broke the wax seal and ripped the envelope apart in his hurry.

 

_Dear Lord Tyrone Johnson,_

_You’d be very kind to communicate this message to our mutual acquaintance._

_I regret to inform him that three days ago, before his letter arrived, his cousin sent a young friend to the village to purchase two horses and supplies for a long trip. In the early morning of the next day, they took the road to the south together. I spoke to them just before their departure and they refused to tell me where they were going. To the best of my knowledge, they headed in the general direction of Pine Port. I do not know their current whereabouts._

_I truly hope the news won’t trouble our mutual acquaintance too much._

_Your most devoted servant,_

_Stuart MacIntyre_

Anders wasn’t “troubled”.  He was _incensed_.

With a growl, he crushed the letter into a ball and threw it to the nearest wall.

“What? What happened?” Ty worried. “What did John say?”

Pacing around the room like a show bear poked by its trainer one too many times, Anders ran both hands through his hair. “It’s not from John; it’s a letter from Stuart!”

Ty picked up the discarded ball of paper. “Can I see?”

Anders was too angry to notice. “That idiot!!! How could he- ? How? I can’t believe it!!!”

“I don’t understand,” Ty confessed, once he had read the content of the message.

“It’s easy to understand,” Anders raged. “My glorious imbecile of a husband left and headed to the south, not telling anybody where he was going!”

Ty reread the letter, still puzzled.  “I thought he was going to come here once he has recovered?”

“That was the plan, but of course, _His Highness_ didn’t care and decided to go in the opposite direction! I swear, if that pig-headed moron gets himself captured; I’m going to kill him!”

“That would be quite unproductive,” Ty remarked.

Anders gritted his teeth. “I have no time for your amateur sarcasm, Ty.”

“What are you going to do?”  

“There is nothing to do! I give up!” He threw his hands up in defeat. “That man has a death wish, and if he really wants to be executed, who am I to prevent it?” Of course, Anders didn’t think a word of what he had just said, but he was too upset to mind his own tongue. He stormed out, slamming the door on his way.

 

***

 

Ty and Anders had agreed not to tell anyone about the letter, not even Dawn or the other Johnsons.

Anders estimated that John and Zeb had left the Gull’s Nest about six days prior to the arrival of Stuart’s letter in Aklànd. Where were they going? Pine Port was the gate to the inlands: to Keirmoor, but also to Brastàl. Was John planning on going home to reclaim his throne and avenge the death of Master Sileas and Madraid Aileen all by himself? Anders gave him credit for more intelligence. It was his arm that he got amputated after all, not his brain. But now Anders doubted everything. Was John reckless enough to go after Duncan on his own?

It wouldn’t be the first time that John put himself in a dangerous situation consciously, _with the intent to die in the course and_ save his honor. His reactions during the siege of Archerwall were  proof enough.

Maybe John was looking for Annie; maybe he had learnt where she was hiding. Maybe he just wanted to gather information about his mother and inquire after her well-being. Perhaps he had other plans that Anders could not even fathom.

There was also a possibility that John was heading to Aklànd, but had taken a detour to throw Duncan’s men off their scent. If that was the case, Zeb and he would still be there by now, and after three more days without any news, all the unanswered questions were threatening to drive Anders insane. Helpless and angry, he was losing sleep and appetite over it. On top of that, he spent half his time scratching his wedding tattoo. Axl was rude enough to tell him: “you look terrible, Anders.” Sadly, he was right.

Anders hated John for putting him through that once again. All he wanted was to make sure his husband was alive and well, so he could punch him in the face without remorse.

The week of the wedding was drawing close. The clans would soon arrive in Aklànd and John had not resurfaced yet.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Ty tried to reassure Anders, though his eyes betrayed a good amount of concern.

“I don’t care,” was all Anders said, but every night, when the castle was asleep, he roamed the battlements’ walkway, casting his gaze to the south.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for your encouraging comments  
> Don't despair, my friends. There is a reunion of our heroes on the near horizon. 
> 
> As usual, my gratitude goes to Katyushha who sacrifices hours of sleep to beta this story.


	8. Dark Horse

 

  
_Reeds and bulrush, twice taller than him, swaying in the wind. The marshlands is a prairie for giants. The sun is hurting his eyes. Is it morning or sunset? Hard to tell. The boy has water to his knees and it’s not cold, or warm, or even wet._

_  
He moves forward in the labyrinth of reeds, along their shifting walls that open and close around him. He’s on the right track. Here and there: deep prints of horse hooves in the peat moss._

  
_Past the brush of alder trees, the water turns red under his feet and, further ahead, he spots a large, pale shape lying in the murky water. It’s a horse, its head half submerged and eyes shut. Blood oozes from its sliced throat._

 _  
The boy falls to his knees and starts crying. “Ornàn!! Why did they do that to you?_ _Please, don’t leave me!” With both hands, he pets the dirty white mane and the dead flesh gone rigid._

_A presence by his side: Johan’s boots and kilt enter his field of sight._

_“Father… my horse is dead.”_

_“You have to find another one.”_

_“But where?”_

_“Don’t stay there gaping. Get up and start looking!”_

_  
The boy is running across the wetland now. His feet sink into the mud. It’s slowing him. The more he runs, the slower he gets._

_  
Suddenly he stops and listens.  He’s not alone. Movements in the reeds.  He sees it: a stallion with a mane and coat of a perfect coal-black. An animal as wild as beautiful._

_  
The horse is limping. The boy should kill it, out of mercy. But the stallion has hazel eyes, framed with long lashes. They are not pleading for a quick death. Those eyes are threatening, defiant, desperate._

_  
The boy twists the rope in his hand, tying the knot to catch the horse. He wants that one and no other, but the stallion has spotted him. It prances and takes off, water splashing around its long, lean legs_.

  
***

  
Anders woke up gasping for air, covered in sweat, the linen sheet sticking to his skin and making his body itch all over.

  
He had been running and running in his dream. No wonder he woke up in that state. The weight sitting on his chest didn’t help him breathe either. Seeing that her master was awake, Tiolam took upon herself to clean the remaining cobwebs from his face by licking it clean.  
Anders grimaced and pushed his pet off of him. “By the spirits! What did you eat? You stink! You really need a bath.”

  
Undeterred, she wagged her tail, and crawled up to his face again, in hope Anders would let her burrow herself under the blankets with him. She couldn’t predict the treatment Anders was planning for her later. She hated to be brushed and loathed to be bathed. He suspected it would take at least three servants to wrestle her into a tub and one more to block any possible exit route.

  
“I’m sorry, young lady, but tonight is the engagement banquet,” he apologized in advance, “and since you’re of noble extraction, you have to be presentable for the guests.”

  
  
***

  
  
Servants came and went from the Great Hall like foraging bees, decorating the walls with garlands made out of crab-apple branches, bringing armfuls of freshly-cut grass to cover the floor under the tables and hanging to the ceiling beams gigantic bunches of gorse flowers.    

  
_“When the gorse is in bloom, kissing's in season,”_ was the old saying. The prickly gorse bush wore its blooms all year round, which meant kissing was never out of the question. Though, at this particular time of the year, the bright flowers turned the hills into magnificent seas of yellow.

  
The sweet, heady scent of spring put smiles on the lips and dance in the steps of the castle’s household. Amidst all the talks of war, invasion and dread, the house staff and the courtiers had welcomed the wedding announcement with relief and hope.

  
The festive ambiance had no grip on Anders’ mood, however. He oversaw the alcohol supplying for the banquet with the same enthusiasm he would display cleaning horse manure from the stables. Even the prospect of all the food and drink could not bring him any pleasure.

  
In the last two days, the clans had arrived one by one to Aklànd. They set up luxury tents in the courtyard, turning it into a small village.

  
“Still no news of the Douglases?,” Ty inquired when he found Anders counting the barrels kitchen boys rolled in from the cellar.

  
“No,” Anders said, crossing an item on his list with a jaded expression.

  
The Douglas family were the only clan who had not replied to the invitation, and while the Johnsons still hoped they would show up, they hadn’t given any sign of life yet.  
Ty lowered his voice.  “And what about John?”

  
Anders crinkled his nose in discontent. “You’ll be the first one to know if I hear anything. Don’t you have someone else to pester? I’m busy.” He showed Ty his notebook as a proof, though there was barely anything written on it.  

  
“I just met with the Duncan representatives,” Ty informed him. As he expected, the comment piqued Anders’ interest.

  
“And? What are we up against?”

  
“The one of his siblings Duncan chose to send is Lady Ingrid…. He doesn’t know yet what mistake he’s made and what favor he made us.”

  
“What do you mean?”  

  
“I spoke to Ingrid several times during clans gatherings. She’s not like any of the other Duncans. If I’m not wrong, there’s even a chance we can convince her to side with us.”  

  
“Well, I count on you to charm the dress off of her,” Anders said. He made the quill twirl between his fingers. “Don’t tell Dawn I said that…”

  
Ty laughed. “I won’t.” Unlike Anders, he was optimistic and joyful today. His upcoming premarital trials weren’t a worry yet. He basked in the euphoria of knowing his dream at arm’s reach. He abandoned Anders there, jogging his way across the banquet hall to join his bride-to-be when she came down the stairwell.

  
Anders sighed and closed his notebook. He had lost the feeling of being useful. The chamberlains and staff intendants would take care of the drink supply anyway. Since a certain curly-haired man had gone missing, obsessive powerlessness occupied a growing space in his mind. The more he tried not to think of his husband’s whereabouts, the more he did. If only he knew where he was? Dead or alive: it would at the very least put his mind at rest. John was to blame for making him so miserable. With every new sunrise without news, Anders got a little angrier.

  
The aroma of roasted meat floated in the air to the hall from the kitchens. Having nothing better to do, Anders sat at his place at the table of honor and watched the servants setting the tables.

  
Tiolam slalomed between the legs of chairs and tables, but also between human ones.  She almost tripped two poor kitchen wenches carrying heavy basins of water.  Fortunately for her, being Sir Anders’ pet, she enjoyed a special status that prevented her from being punished or even scolded for her mischiefs.

  
Behind the dais, chambermaids on ladders took down the tapestry representing a view of the bay. For the banquet, they replaced it by a splendid one illustrating the founding of the federation - when the clan lords and ladies gathered under an old pine to sign the alliance treaty.  The Johnsons had been amongst those founding fathers and mothers. The display of the tapestry was a way to remind their guests they were a clan to be respected and reckoned with.

  
Stewarts replenished the chandeliers with fresh candles; lighting them even though the night was still a few hours away. It rained all day long and the hall was already darkened enough to warrant such exceptional measure. On the other side of the high windows, deer statues at the end of the roof gutters spluttered water from their mouths.  
To make the hall lighter and warmer, stable boys brought in logs and kindle wood. Soon, flames swirled in the fireplace. Above the hearth, the Johnsons, being keen hunters, had hung multiple hunting trophies over the centuries. Among them, an exception: the skull of a giant elk; a species that disappeared from the North Hills since times immemorial and which skeleton had been found in a bog. “I wonder if Duncan dreams of putting mine and John’s heads above his fireplace,” Anders pondered, and just as he was entertaining those gloomy thoughts, someone cleared their throat behind him.  
A woman was waiting for him to help her climb the two steps to the dais and Anders heart dropped. With Ty’s wedding, he wouldn’t be spared that ordeal, but he had hoped to delay it as soon as possible. But now, there she was, as disdainful and scornful as ever: Lady Elisabet Johnson.  

  
She coughed, showing her impatience, and with a look of contempt aimed at Anders.  
Gathering all the calm he could find in himself, he stood from his seat and went to help her up the dais. He shivered when her clawing, bony fingers grabbed his arm. She walked with a cane nowadays, frequent gout attacks making her feet ache. She complained profusely about it, until Anders pulled a chair for her at the table and she was able to sit.

  
“I never thought I’d say that about you one day, but you got too skinny,” she told Anders with her legendary lack of tact.

  
Anders took a deep breath to control the frustration igniting in his stomach. He had to keep a straight face and not let her criticism have any power over him. “You must be happy about it, since you’ve always complained about my tummy.”

  
Lady Elizabet pinched her lips. It gave her nose the aspect of a bird beak. “I wouldn’t say it improves your looks in any way,” she commented. “It’s my son’s engagement banquet and you’re sporting that bushy beard. You look like a peasant. You’re already making us ashamed by the way you conducted yourself in Bastàl. You could have at least made some effort to look decent.”

  
Stiffening under the verbal attack, Anders froze. “What do you mean about ‘my conduct in Brastàl’?”

  
She snorted. “I know some people blame your departed husband for the loss of the Ferguson land, but I know who the true responsible is. I heard about the little stunt you pulled on the day Lord Mitchell’s army departed from Brastàl. If he lost the trust and the loyalty of his army, it's because you disobeyed him and undermined his authority in front of his own men.” She was referring to Anders trying to follow John against his will, getting scolded by his husband in front of the soldiers and sent back to Brastàl. “I cannot believe you acted so foolishly after everything I taught you,” she went on, spitting all the venom a viper can stock in the span of a few seasons. “I wasted all my best years on raising an orphan who wasn’t even my own flesh and blood…and to see now what disservice I did to my country! He turned out to be the spawn of the enemy! It is beyond me that you chose to return here, after the dishonor you brought upon our family!”

  
Anders’ hands balled into fists. He wasn’t a little boy anymore – weak and afraid. He was a man now, and as much as the old woman’s words hurt him deeply, awakening some half-buried guilt, he was not going to let himself be intimidated anymore. Fighting venom with venom, he gave her a serpent-like grin. “While clan Johnson struggles to keep its castles in repair, I hear you lead a lavish life in Wodden, with all the money my marriage brought to the Johnsons, so if I were you, I’d thank me instead.”

  
She opened her mouth to give him a bit more of a tongue lashing, but she closed it straight away, unsettled by the smile and the confidence.

  
He bowed down and kissed her cold hand before he walked back to his own chair.  
Some ladies in fine, tartan gowns started gathering on the mezzanine overlooking the hall as the staff was giving a last, quick polish to the silverware.

  
The musicians arrived, with a harp and a flute. The banquet was about to begin and the clans made their entrance.

  
Anders heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed somewhat when Olaf and  Axl came sitting between him and Lady Elizabet. He had a more pleasant company sitting at his right-hand side; Dawn’s mothers Lady Fiona and Lady Effie. Anders exchanged polite greetings with both of them. The last time he had spoken to Lady Keir and her wife was just before his last premarital trial.

  
At the end of the table, Padraig Keir, Dawn’s twin brother, looked like he’d rather put pine cones in his arse than be there. The jealousy he felt for his sister was notorious, and tonight, she would be officially engaged to an heir of one of the most highly respected clans in the North Hills.

   
The banquet opened with Ty and Dawn making their entrance, holding hands. The servants brought the first course as soon as everybody found their place around the tables.

  
The guests enjoyed catfish stuffed with garden herbs, roasted pheasants, partridges and swans. They especially appreciated the wild boar meat with a juniper berry sauce, accompanied with watercress and lamb’s lettuce. After the flavorless nettle broth he had been forced to ingest at the Gull’s Nest, such rich food should have rejoiced Anders’ stomach, but his throat was tight, not letting much food in. He threw most of it to Tiolam’s ready jaws under the table.

  
He should have been happy, or at least satisfied. His and Dawn’s plan had been working so far. The hostility between the clans had pacified to a state of cold war where they all waited to see what the others were going to do. The climate was tense, but not explosive. In uncertain, potentially hostile territory, most of the Duncans looked like fish out of the water, with teeth like sturgeons’.  Allan, Lady Ingrid’s son, had the sharpest teeth of them all, but at least he wasn’t baring them yet.

  
At the end of the feast only crumbs remained on most plates. The guests washed their hands in the bowls of perfumed water left on the tables for that purpose. Clansmen joined forces with the servants to disassemble and put away the tables. With new space made for dancing, they could now greet the bagpiper and the drummers with applause.  
Nobody would dare start dancing, though – not before the master or the mistress of the house allowed it. For now and until he officially became Dawn’s husband, Ty still held this status. Before the dance could begin, the couple stepped down the dais and claimed the middle of the hall.

  
The official announcement would not come as a surprise for any of the guests. They knew why they were there, but it was all part of the protocol.

  
Anders remembered that moment when it happened between him and his own betrothed; how when John invited him to come closer ; Anders had felt like he was going to the gallows but John’s fingers were warm and reassuring when they laced with his.    
“My dear guests,” Ty called to everybody’s attention, “Lady Dawn would like to say a few words.” He looked at her and she returned his smile.

  
“I’d like to take the joyous occasion of our reunion here tonight to announce my intention of making Sir Tyrone Johnson my spouse and the future consort of Clan Keir. I’d make him my husband on the last day of the week of Frea.”

  
Ty put a knee to the ground before his bride-to-be, his eyes full of adoration and reverence. “If the spirits allow it, I’m yours, my lady.”

  
Anders gulped around the lump in his throat. He coughed discreetly and wiped his mouth with a towel to hide his expression. If he had loved his husband that way… sooner than he did, if John had loved him better, they would have had more time together.

  
The crowd broke in cheers. Anders joined the others in clapping.

  
Under the table, Tiolam was trying to dig a hole through his boot with paws and teeth. She disliked loud noises, but since the moment Ty and Dawn had left the dais, she was more agitated than usual. Anders lifted the side of the table cloth to check what she was up to. “What’s the matter with you?” Her excitement got to another level. She barked and tried to jump on his lap. He pushed her back down. She made a squeaking yelp he had never heard before, running in circle around his chair.

  
Even Lady Effie noticed her strange behavior. “Is you pet alright, Sir Mitchell?”

  
Anders didn’t have time to reply. The door of the Great Hall opened, leading way to the herald. The man was out of breath, obviously unsettled. “Clan Douglas just arrived, my lord,” he informed Ty. “Should I let them in?”

  
“This is great news! Of course, you shall let them in!”

  
In an awkward little trot across the hall, the herald came up to his master and said something to Ty in private before he trotted back outside.

  
Anders and his brother exchanged a brief look. Ty seemed to want to warn him of something, but it was too late.

   
The doors opened again and entered Clan Douglas: thirty men and the same numbers of ladies, all clad in armor and wearing the matching grey and yellow kilt characteristic of their clan; all except for one.

      
Gasps of surprise came from everywhere in the room. The guests stared at the man leading the clan into the room, mouth agape and bemused, but nobody was as pale as Anders. He stood from his seat briskly, knocking it hard with the back of his knees in the process. His brain didn’t even register the pain.

  
John’s amputated arm was strapped across his chest, over a leather breastplate. Rain had dampened his windswept curls and the cold outside put a flush to his cheeks.  A dark fire of determination and confidence Anders had thought long extinguished burnt again on his face. Their eyes locked and a shudder grazed the skin up Anders’ back. He didn’t have to pretend to be overwhelmed by the revelation his husband wasn’t dead, because even if he had spent the last moons with John, it was the first time since the beginning of the winter that he saw him so… alive.

  
John’s uncle, Ellar Douglas, took the lead to accept Ty’s greetings.

    
“Congratulation on your wedding announcement, Lord Johnson.”

  
“Lord Douglas,” Ty enthused, grabbing the chieftain’s forearm. “Welcome!”

  
Tiolam ran from underneath the table to lavish her love upon John. She rolled on her back at his feet, demanded to be petted. “Hey, little rascal,” John said fondly and he squatted down to rub her belly.  

  
“As you can see,” Ellar told Ty, “we’ve come bearing a gift: a long lost family member.” He stepped away to let John come forward.

  
John rose and the brothers-in-law fell in a fierce embrace. “By the spirits, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Ty exclaimed, returning the hug. “This is such a great surprise to have you here with us. We all thought you had left us for the afterlife.”

  
“It’s good to see you too, brother,” John answered. And then, he whispered something into Ty’s ear.   

  
Ty touched his shoulder in gratitude. “Thank you so much. These words mean a lot to me.” Anders suspected Ty had gotten the blessing he was waiting for.  

  
John then kissed Dawn’s hand.  “You look ravishing.”  

  
“We’re all happy for your return,” she assured him with a smile, adjusting the flower crown on her head in a rare bout of coquetry.  

  
Axl and Olaf stayed put, unsure, wanting to pay their respect to the man they considered to be their true liege, but also knowing the Duncans were watching. They had to settle for polite nods of acknowledgement.   

  
Tiolam sat on John’s left boot cap, claiming the spot as her territory and asking for more attention, but John had something else in mind. “Ty, as our gracious host, would you allow me to steal the first dance from you?”

  
“I allow you with great pleasure,” Ty replied with a smile, inviting the Douglas clan to a table the servants had set in a hurry, in order to feed the unexpected guests.  
John extended his hand in Anders’ direction, addressing him for the first time. “My love, please, would you do me the honor?”

  
Anders hesitated. His legs turned into stone and his tongue into granite. A wave of murmurs ebbed and flowed across the Great Hall. He hated dancing, and John knew it. He had a few choice words for his husband, but here and now wasn’t the time. He felt the eyes of what the whole country counted in noble people burn a hole through him: especially those of his spouse, his step-mother and the Duncans’. Anders incarnated the Johnson—Mitchel alliance. Showing division now would be to show weakness in the face of the other clan chieftains. The political fate of the North Hills depended on whether he would accept to take that hand and dance. John too was aware of everything at stake here: hence the invitation and the sweet endearment. Anders wasn’t gullible enough to think John could be sincere. They hadn’t talked amicably for way over a moon now.

  
Anders set his limbs in motion and joined John down the dais before his slow reaction could be interpreted as reluctance. He hoped the clansmen would blame the tension between the former Great Lord and his consort on the shock of seeing John alive.

  
John’s fingers closed around his, firmly: not giving him any other option but to follow him to the center of the hall. The crowd stood back to make space for them. Anders gave his husband a sidelong look. John’s face was without a smile: dignified and focused on the task at hand.    

  
Since Anders was the one first invited to dance tonight, he would choose what kind of dance he and John would perform. When they faced each other, Anders grabbed his husband by the belt and pulled him closer, tearing an involuntary huff from him. John smelled of leather, hay and spring rain. They held each other’s stare as Anders took John’s sword and drew it from his sheath. He freed his spouse and drew the ceremonial sword hanging to his own belt. He took a few steps back, leant down and placed the two swords to the stone floor, the blades forming a perfectly perpendicular cross.

  
“Oh, I see,” John said with a smirk, when he understood Anders was challenging him to a sword-dance. “This is how you want to play it, huh?”

 

The guests clapped in tentative encouragement. No matter what they thought of him, they couldn’t help but admire Anders’ bold choice. This dance demanded technical precision as well as stamina, coordination and an acute sense of space.  
“Do you think you can handle it?” Anders asked. The question was more of a gesture of defiance than a mark of concern.  

  
“Can you? You always told me you were a terrible dancer” John reminded him, taking position in the section of the cross marked out by the sharp end of the blades.

  
Anders placed his feet in the tight space between the sword handles. “This is another thing I lied about. I’m a terrific dancer,” he retorted. “I just hate it.” The reason for that hatred walked with a cane and was currently seated beside Axl at the table of honor.    
Five stomps to the hard floor with the heel of Anders’ boot echoed across the hall and determined the tempo of the dance.

   
John eyed his husband with surprise. “So fast!?”

  
“I’ll manage,” Anders deadpanned.

  
The bodhràn drums rolled to match the beat Anders had set and the audience held their breath. At the first deep, long note torn from the bagpipe, the two dancers bowed deeply to salute one another, like stags lowering their heads to lock antlers.

  
Then, the politeness being out of the way, they engaged in what appeared to be more of a singular combat than a harmless dance. They had to mirror the other’s steps and movements perfectly, hopping across the blades on the sound of the bagpipe without disrupting, touching or even grazing the swords with their feet. Blood rushed to Anders’ face. A savage glee, closer to wrath and ire than to joy, took him whole.

  
Anders was at a disadvantage for being shorter than his partner. Shorter legs meant he had to move a lot more than John to avoid the swords and not fall behind the music. It asked for a great deal of agility. The steps had to be light and powerful at the same time.

  
From the way John danced, giving everything he had, no one could have told he suffered a life-threatening injury only a few moons ago. For him to keep his balance with only one arm free of movement was a prowess in itself. But John was still the one impressed by the ease and skill Anders displayed. The Johnsons, however, remained unfazed. They all knew Anders was an accomplished dancer.

  
“Why are you making me do this? To make a show for these people?” Beneath the sound of the bagpipe, only John would hear Anders’ aggressive questions. “You want them to believe we are such a united couple? No matter how great we are at dancing, I don’t think we’re being very credible right now…”  

  
“It’s indeed vital that we show unity, now more than ever,” John replied, eyebrows knitted in effort, “but I’m here because I care.”

  
“Care about what? Brastàl? Your title? Your prestige? Revenge? Everything but me?”  
Spellbound, the audience witnessed a battle of wit and determination as well as physical faculties.

  
“You’re wrong,” John argued. “I care about you. I want to make amends.”  

  
“And you think that some grand gesture will be enough to erase every time you called me a craven?”

  
“No, but I wish it to be somewhat of a step stone.”

    
John glanced down and Anders immediately noticed it.

  
Looking at the floor during a sword dance could be interpreted as a sign of weakness and a proof you didn’t master the dance. Anders’ step-mother had him practice blindfolded on several occasions and he’d get punished every time he would touched a sword, until he could execute the routine without having to watch his steps.

  
John’s cast his gaze down again. He wasn’t looking at his own feet or even the swords. Anders’ legs were the responsible for attracting his eyes. Hops and steps around the swords were indeed meant to make the kilt move, reveal the legs and sometimes, even show the glimpse a buttock to the spectators for a split second.

  
“I want you back,” John declared, his voice getting hoarse from exhaustion.

   
“Now? How convenient...”

  
“Anders, don’t-”

  
“I swear, if you finish that sentence, I step on your toes,” Anders threatened him. “And I guarantee you I can do that without even disrupting the blades.”

  
Like a kettle too full and boiling, the dance allowed Anders to blow off some steam, but not to the point of trusting John blindly. He knew what his husband had to do, from a political standpoint, but he would not accept to be a doormat and be coaxed into collaboration with sweet, meaningless words.

  
Sweat pearled along John’s hairline: on his temple and forehead. Two fallen eyelashes clung to his cheekbone. “I understand your anger.”  

  
“No John, no you don’t,” Anders objected. “You really don’t. I had a plan set in motion to free Brastàl and my brother, and you arrive here at the head of Clan Douglas, with your kilt pleated like a man going to war, ruining all the work I’ve done for the past weeks. What message do you think your attitude sends to the Duncans? You basically signed out our death sentence.” No matter how breathless he was, Anders had enough anger in himself to be able to say all the words that needed to come out.  

  
“How could I have known you had a plan?”

  
“You would have known if you stayed at the Gull’s Nest and waited like I asked you to! But you probably didn’t trust me enough to let me handle it!”

  
Anders clapped in his hands with a brief shout, giving to the musicians a cue to accelerate the tempo.

  
At this stage, the dancers had to accept a state of constant unbalance. The head and torso barely moved, only the legs and hips did the work. The pace and the complexity of the dance didn’t allow John to speak anymore, which was Anders’ goal. They kept hitting their marks even though their lungs burnt and their calves hurt.

  
The song reached its climax, and with a last note that pierced Anders through the chest, it ended.

  
The two dancers stepped back to bow, panting.

  
No clansman dared give the performance more than timid applause, for fear to appear as if they were supporters of the Mitchells against Duncan’s authority.

  
John offered his arm to his husband to escort him from the dancefloor as several other couples took position for the next dance, but Anders refused.

  
“I’ve never danced with someone so rapid and precise,” John commented with astonishment when they reached the dais.

  
“I’ve been tortured that way,” Anders answered flatly. Now that he hadn’t the physical exertion to distract him, he experienced a rush of emotions that made his head swim. He had to get out of here and quick: get away from John’s voice, his sight and even his smell. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord...”  He bowed to his spouse and took his leave before John could say anything.

  
   
***

 

  
When Anders stepped outside, perspiration on his face turned cold.

  
The rain had ceased, but the night birds stayed hidden from the caprices of the weather. The garden was silent, except from the sound of droplets falling from trees and plants. Every branch, every leaf, every petal and flower bud wore a necklace of delicate, transparent pearls.

  
He strode across an alley and took a sudden turn after the gardener’s cottage. His personal guards were after him. They had vowed to protect their master, but right now, all he wanted was peace and quiet, no matter if this desire could put him in danger.

  
He lost the two poor guards by hiding behind a hedge and waiting for them to be gone.  
After a few minutes of complete silence, he resumed his solitary walk. Even if he had touched the man and even danced with him, heard him talk and saw him sweat, he had a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact John had returned and how different he looked.  

  
Anders thought he was truly alone in the garden, but at some point, indistinct voices carried to him from the main alley, through wet vegetation.

  
He reached for the sheath on his belt and found it empty. He had left his sword in the hall in his hurry. If he was attacked in the garden, he had no means to defend himself. Maybe his idea of shaking off his guards wasn’t such a good one after all. There was no way he would turn around now and go back to the castle, though. He doubted he would ever be ready to return there tonight. He’d have to find a place to sleep in the garden…

  
What was John thinking: leaving the Gull’s Nest like this without telling anybody where he was going, not giving news for weeks and reappearing at the worst moment without any warning whatsoever? He had done all these things with no consideration for Anders’ feelings.  Why would it be any different, though? This attitude had been a constant since their wedding. John followed the rules, his duty and his instincts, not giving much thought to Anders’ opinions.

  
John wanted his throne back, and knowing full-well the great-lordship depended on his marital status, he now wanted Anders back and was suddenly ready to make amends after shutting him out for so long.  

  
Anders swallowed back tears of anger. He had been used, and it was sadly not the first time. Johan and Mikkel had used him to strengthen the Johnson-Mitchell alliance. His step-mother used him to be able to collect a dowry. James Mitchell used him to try and keep his son in the right path. Only recently, Ty had been using him to obtain an official blessing. It had turned into an inescapable pattern. From there, it could only get worse.

  
A light fog crept low in the tall grass and between the flower beds. The bottom of his kilt wet with dew, Anders reached the water garden and took the bridge to the mausoleum.  
He had to trust Dawn to handle all of the diplomacy tonight and prevent John from rekindling the political tension between the clans in unrepairable ways.  

  
Impulsive as he was, Anders wouldn’t be surprised if John attacked the Duncans for what they had done in Brastàl, or maybe confront them in a violent way to learn what had happened to his mother and to George. By doing this, he would destroy a very fragile truce. He was very capable of it.

  
Anders shouldn’t have left the hall, but he was overwhelmed, convinced that if one could vomit emotions, he would in that instant. Nausea seized him and he stopped on the bridge for a moment to fight it. He wiped his forehead with the collar of his vest and forced himself to breathe normally.

 

Running outside instead of facing the situation: what a great way to prove to John he wasn’t a coward!  

  
The inside of the mausoleum remained undisturbed since the last time Anders came here. He climbed in the dark to the second floor balcony. If an assassin came to get him, at least, he’d see him coming. There was no other access to the island but the bridge.  
Clouds parted, unveiling the crescent moon. Only fish troubled the surface of the pond by jumping to catch up-winged flies.

  
The underroof of the mausoleum made an ideal dwelling for bats to sleep during the day. One of them had overslept and took off from above Anders’ head to join its sisters in their hunt for insects. When he was a teen, Anders took a wicked pleasure in bringing girls to the water garden and telling them tales about bats getting tangled and stuck in long hair. When the sun would set and the bats began their frenetic dance over the pond, the poor girls would hang on to him for dear life, screaming.

  
Anders wasn’t scared of bats. He owed grateful kisses from naïve lassies to their presence in the garden. The strange flying creatures always fascinated him. As a young boy he himself believed the common mistake that they would collide with humans, tangle in hair and clothes. After all, they flew in complete darkness sometimes.

  
The first time he traveled with his family to the wetlands, at the very East of the North Hills, was when Mikkel reached the age young noblemen captured their first wild horse. During that travel, his big brother had shown him how agile the bats were: catching tiny insects between the reeds, with little or no light to guide them. There was something magical in the way they could orient themselves, and Anders then figured out the bats were not stupid and clumsy enough to crash into something as big as a human head.

    
As much as he’d rather stay there, on the mausoleum balcony, amongst other misunderstood creatures, at some point he’d have to go back inside the castle. Not that he really wanted to, but as a Johnson, he was one of the hosts, and as a Mitchell, he was expected to appear in public at his husband’s side. Since the Mitchells, having lost their estate, were not technically a clan anymore, maybe he would be spared from pretending.

  
Footsteps on the bridge made him snap his head around, but he soon relaxed when he recognized the man walking up to the mausoleum, carrying a candle to light his way.

  
“I knew I’d find you here,” Ty commented when he joined Anders on the balcony. Damp spider webs between the railings of the balcony caught the candlelight, revealing an unexpected beauty. Ty had the presence of mind to bring his brothers’ sword and he handed it out for him.

  
Anders whispered his thanks and sheathed his weapon. “Aren’t you supposed to be dancing with Dawn ; all lovey-dovey and lost in each other’s eyes or something equally mushy?”

  
“I’ve come to see how you were doing… with John being back and all,” Ty hinted. “Are you alright?”

  
“Of course I’m alright,” Anders growled, offended that Ty could even imagine John’s return would trouble him in the slightest. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  

  
Ty showed the palms of his hands, offended in turn that his concern was received with such vehemence.  “Fine! Sorry for asking!” 

  
Anders hailed his brother before he could leave:  “ Ty! I’m sorry… I…That’s nice of you to check on me.”

  
Ty sighed and shook his head, but he decided to stay.  

  
“To answer honestly, I don’t know how I’m doing,” Anders confessed. “I wanted John to come back and he seems ready to make amends and turn over a new leaf… or so he says. I should be happy, or relieved at the very least. Why am I still so angry?”  
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. You should talk to him.”  

  
“I’m not sure I have the strength to go back to the Great Hall and face all these people watching our every move.”

  
“I don’t think you’re going to have to.”

  
“What do you mean?”

  
Ty pointed at something on the opposite bank of the pond. At first, the only thing Anders saw was the light of a lantern reflecting on the water, but then, he distinguished the tall shadow in a leather armor, gauging Anders from behind the undergrowth of reedmace, like the dark stallion who visited him in his dream the previous night.   

  
“He must have followed you,” Anders whispered, his heart picking up speed again. “I’m pretty bad at hiding from people, am I?”

  
Patting him on the shoulder, Ty gave him a knowing smile. “Or maybe you just wanted to be found.”

  
“Maybe….”

  
Under the shelter of willow branches, John had not budged, waiting for Anders to come.

  
“You should go join him,” Ty encouraged his brother. “I’ll send guards, but I’ll make sure they keep a good distance to give you two some privacy.”

  
Anders nodded, trepidation keeping the words stuck behind the barrier of his tongue. As he took the stairs and walked out of the mausoleum, he gripped the handle of his sword, like a man about to run into the heat of the battle again.

 

 

 

 

**To be continued…**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my dearest Katyushha for her helpful insights into the characters' mind and for her help with my grammar.


	9. A New Leaf

 

 

_____________

 

 

Music, clapping and exclamations carried from the great hall, all the way through  the  garden and to the mausoleum island where Anders waited for Ty to walk away on the main alley.

Once his brother  was out of ear-shot, Anders crossed the bridge to join his husband. He  trod in the damp grass, around the pond, with careful steps.

John had receded to a more private section of the garden, under the canopy of a weeping willow grove. Despite the lantern, darkness still veiled the true nature of his expression. “Of all the places you could’ve run to, a mausoleum wouldn’t have been my first guess.” 

Anders stopped a dozen feet away. “If you’re here to criticize my choices, you can go back to the great hall right away, because you won’t find a willing listener in me.” No place in this conversation for an exchange of pleasantries. Small talk had never been their style anyway, but only one sentence into the conversation and Anders was already defensive. This wasn’t a good start.

“No, I’m not here for that,” John said. “I’m here to apologize.”

Ander s c rossed his arms. “What makes you think I want to hear any of it?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.” 

John hung the lantern in the tree, tying a knot around the handle with one flexible willow branch. He had gained some dexterity with his left hand since the last time Anders had seen him using it for a complex task. 

After a moment of tense silence, Anders finally caved in. John was right. He had to  do him the courtesy of hearing him out. He approached some more, closing the space between them until they were at a cautious distance of five feet from each other.

Somewhere in the bulrush, a male nightjar churred.

The light from the lantern outlined John’s profile, turning him into the tragic hero of a shadow theatre play. “I’m sorry my arrival with clan Douglas endangered your plan,” John began. “In my view, they were the most likely to help me take Brastal back. That’s why I called upon them.” He worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he thought. “When I arrived in Linden, they had just received Ty’s invitation to the wedding and they were reluctant to come, but I managed to convince them to accompany me to Aklànd. They wouldn’t be here if it w ere n’t  for me. But I lacked judgement by making such an entrance. I promise to behave in front of the Duncans and to try my best to fix what I’ve done.”

Anders wasn’t going to soften at the first sign of repentance. He narrowed his eyes. “Good luck with that! Besides, your grand entrance isn’t what infuriates me the most, as surprising as it may sound -- it’s your gross lack of regards for my feelings.” He paced around the tree. “Don’t you remember you’ve taken an oath, in the forest outside Carraig? You swore not to leave my side when danger arises: I didn’t think I needed fine prints on that contract to specify that disappearing voluntarily without giving any news was also a dick move? Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

“I’m sorry for that. Truly, I am.” John did seem remorseful, unless it was a trick of the light. “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to justify myself, but I figured that the fewer people I told about my intentions, the safer it would be for everyone involved.” 

“You sound exactly like you’re trying to justify yourself,” Anders growled.

John made a step toward him. “My goal wasn’t to put you through this.”

Anders stepped back. “No, I was just collateral damage, as usual.” He had to stay out of reach. If John touched him, he was going to lose it.

“Listen…I know you’re hurt,” John whispered, with the same tone he’d use to pacify a restive but beloved foal. “I’ve done this to you and I regret it dearly. But you have to believe me when I say that my will to make things better between us is genuine.”

Wariness prevented Anders from letting it move him. He would not wilt and cower. “I see. Now that you have potential allies and there’s light at the end of the tunnel: now you want to make things better?” He scoffed. “I’m still just a pawn in your political game, admit it.”

It was John’s turn to look hurt. He bowed his head down and his shoulders heaved slowly. “You were never that to me, Anders…never.”

A lump grew in Anders’ throat. He swallowed down. Had he gone too far?

John leant sideways on the willow’s trunk; a soldier with an arrow through the chest, battling to stay on his feet. “What you said back at the Gull’s Nest… about me idealizing our marriage-”

“Well, it’s true,” Anders interrupted. “Like it or not, my decisions are shaped by who I am! You can’t keep making me something I’m not!”

John nodded slowly. “You’re right about that.” He cleared his throat, with the air of someone who rehearsed several time in his mind what he was about to say. “You were right about many things, in fact.” He peeled himself from the tree truck. “I was shocked to learn what had happened in Brastàl, when you finally told me the truth, but in hindsight, I reacted and acted out of guilt more than  out of true resentment toward you. I was convinced I didn’t deserve you as a spouse and a lover after the way I failed at Archerwall. This helplessness: it was too much for me to bear.”

“Everybody keeps telling me you’ve  been through a lot, as if it absolves you from everything, and yet it doesn’t,” Anders said. “I know you’ve suffered. I witnessed it first-hand. But you’ve been inconsiderate and distrustful too.” 

John shook his head, ashamed of his own conduct. “I know I was. That horrible guilt kept following me everywhere. At some point, blaming you became easier than blaming myself …and that is inexcusable.” His voice broke. “Every time you tried to reach out  to me, I followed this crazy instinct of self-destruction and pushed you away.” His eyes were gleam ing with unshed tears. “After you left, I  made a decision. I’m done with self-pity and I’m done playing dead. Resignation and accusations will lead me nowhere.” He straightened his shoulders and torso with a new-found strength. 

Anders had started to give up hope John would ever make the firs t steps toward a possible reconciliation. He didn’t quite know how to react to this outpour of feelings. He had  wanted similar words from his husband for so long, now that he actually heard them, their sonority was strange – like some discordant music.

He had to poke the beast to see if it was still alive. “Does that mean that you forgive me for going after you instead of defending Brastàl and then for lying about it?”

John grimaced. “I do wish you had been honest about it from the start,” he admitted, “but I understand now why you weren’t. Giving the way I treated you and seeing how I gave up on everything once I found out about it, it was probably the right call to make. As for Brastàl: surrendering to Duncan may have cos t  us our estate and the lives of people who were dear to me, but many more would have probably died in a siege to defend the city. Besides, who am I to decide what’s right or wrong? Even the spirits don’t know! Maybe Duncan was right to take Brastàl. Perhaps, in the end, he’s going to prove himself more worthy than I ever was, or better suited for the task of protecting the country from the invaders. History ha s n’t been written to its full extent yet: nothing’s definite.”

“I still think Duncan is a wanker and undeserving of the title he usurped.”

“Only time will tell,” John mused. “But what I’m trying to say is that your faults were not greater than mine. And perhaps mine were even greater. You made a dangerous choice by leaving Brastàl, but a brave one too.”

He tilted his head to the side, desperate to catch Anders’ eyes. In the night, John’s  eyes  had a soft, honey hue. “I kept choosing my own honor, my own pride, whereas you, chose me.” He stepped closer, tentative at first, then put his hand on Anders’s elbow. Seeing that he encountered no resistance, he let it slide down to his wrist. Fingers pressed gently  to Anders’ pulse point. The contact rekindled in John’s irises the same fire from earlier in the great hall. “The spirits allowed me to live,” he murmured. “From now on, I have to prove I’m worthy of their trust, and, most importantly, of yours.”

In the quiet, foggy grove of willows, the two men stared at one another for a moment. Anders’ heartbeat throbbed in his ears. John was close, his lips moist, slightly parted and waiting. It would have been so easy to just put his mouth on them and kiss him. A voice in his head held Anders back: the voice of wariness, telling him to be prudent.

Carefulness won over any hint of desire. “I appreciate what you’re saying. I do,” Anders said, pulling his hand from John’s hold and swiftly escaping the fingers chasin g h is. “I’m glad to hear you ’ve come to terms with what happened this last winter. But I’m not ready to fall back into your arms. I don’t know if I ever will be.”  

“You won’t,” John replied. “That’s a certitude.”

Anders hadn’t expected that answer and it rubbed him the wrong way. “Why are you saying that?”

A small smile pulled on the corner of John’s lips. “You can’t fall back into my  _ arms _ , since I have but one now.” He moved his right shoulder for emphasis.

“Gallows humor, huh?” Anders couldn’t help a tiny smirk in response. It quickly faded, however. “I’m being serious,  though .”

“Yes. I know.” Disappointed but not surprised, John dug the tip of his boot in the grass, evading his husband’s gaze.

The wind picked up, shaking the branches above their heads. The sudden squall made young leaves, blossoms and water rai n down on them.

Anders wished he could take it as a diversion to dive into the pond and swim away.  “I need some time alone to think.”

“I understand,” John whispered. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I should go back to the castle.” He pointed at the lantern. “Should I leave it with you?”

“No. Take it. I know my way back.”

John took his time to untie the lantern from the branch, perhaps hoping that Anders would change his mind. Seeing that no such thing would happen, he walked away, dragging his feet, as if all the things he had said and all the things he still kept for himself pulled him back toward Anders. Then he paused, hesitated, and turned around.  “Good night.” 

“Good night.”

 

After John disappeared around the corner of a rowan hedge, Anders walked to the other side of the pond and found a stone bench.

Why hadn’t he just kissed John, accepted his apologies and moved on? Dawn would be pleased about it. Ty would be ecstatic. Everything indicated John wanted that kiss – sought it even, but Anders had been unable to satisfy him. Why? Because he couldn’t pretend like nothing had happened. Forgiveness was a hard thing to rush and an ever harder one to fake.

That’s what was expected of him, though: to accept John back into his intimate life, turn over a new leaf  and get on with their life. His duty was to go back to being John’s right arm…. in the most literal sense possible.

He spent the next hours throwing rocks into the water. He could hear the sound they made when they broke the surface of the pond, but, in the night, the ripples remained hidden from his sight; unforeseen consequences.

Would he ever be able to give himself to his husband again, without any second thoughts – without being scared of what would happen if he made a mistake again? He had seen how ugly things could get between them. Did he want to take the risk of reliving that all over again? Most importantly, how could he forgive if he couldn’t forget?

He mulled over all the possible courses of action for most of the night.

The constellations shifted above the canopy of the garden trees. By now, the Foal and the Mare were at their highest point in the sky and the Small Kettle neared the horizon. Anders shivered and tugged on his kilt to cover his knees. The thought of warm blankets, soft linen sheets and bear pelts was more tempting than ever. It was time to go to bed.

When he joined his guards next to the bridge, he was surprised to find out that none of them had fallen asleep waiting for him.  

***

 

In the great hall, less than an inch of candles still burned on the chandeliers. The guests were gone: some of them to sleep, the others to the town where they undoubtedly took the party to some taverns or ale houses. Usually, Anders would have been one of the revellers. Times had changed.

Somewhere on the mezzanine overlooking the great hall, the muffled giggles of a woman indicated that at least one of the guests had found pleasurable distractions  in the castle.

All of the musicians had left, except for one: a young cittern player, si ng ing a song alone, next to the fireplace. Cittern was an instrument usually featuring in lively jig music, but the boy plucked only a few strings at a time, giving the melody a melancholic tone.

He had chosen a popular song from his repertoire. Anders had heard it before, but tonight, the lyrics pulled some wistful strings in hi m . The musician’s voice was clear as a bell, yet soft and pensive. Even the snoring of an old MacGregor clansman, asleep in his chair at one of the tables, wasn’t enough to muffle it.  

 

_ Long have we parted been, _

_ Laddie, my dearie _

_ Now we have met again _

_ Laddie, lie near me _

 

Petals fell like snowflakes from the gorse flowers hanging in bunches  from the ceiling beams and formed a yellow carpet on the floor. As Anders crossed the hall, the petals flew around his boots from the air displaced by his steps. When he looked up, one petal landed on his brow. He brushed it away.

 

_ My heart will never stray, _

_ Never deceive thee, _

_ Delight shall drive care away, _

_ Laddie lie near me _

 

It was so stupid of him to let a song about idealistic courting and unrealistic relationship expectations perturb him in such a way. Had he lost any last bit of emotional independence?

The musician fell silent when he noticed his presence.

“Here, boy. You can go home,” Anders said, slipping a silver coin in his hand.  

“Thank you kindly, sir, but I’ll stay here a little longer if you allow me. This fire is so nice. We don’t have such a big fireplace at the bardic school.” In the hearth, the blaze from the feast had reduced to a mountain of glowing embers: not as bright as flames, but still quite hot. “Do you mind if I keep singing?”

“It’s what we pay you for, right?”

The boy threw a look around the hall. The snoring clansman wasn’t much of an audience. “There’s nobody left,” he observed.  

“There’s me,” Anders said.  

The boy nodded. He plucked the strings on his instrument, a cascade of notes coming alive under his fingers.

 

_ Here in the firelight, _

_ What joy to see thee _

_ All the long winter night _

_ Laddie lie near me _

 

Anders found a half-empty carafe of wine and a clean cup on a table nearby. He was fairly sure it was safe to drink. If there had been poison in it, the sleeping MacGregor man would be dead by now.

At the first sip, Anders stuck his tongue out in a grimace. No food or drink agreed with him tonight.

 

_ Long have I sought thee, _

_ Thy face to cheer me, _

_ Dear has it cost me, _

_ Laddie lie near me… _

 

It was late. There was no point in delaying it any longer. He had to face the idea of being in his bedroom, alone with his thoughts under the blankets.

Anders poured the wine back into the carafe and, followed by the guards, he headed to the spiral staircase.

 

_ All that I have endured, _

_ Laddie, my dearie, _

_ Here in thy arms is cured, _

_ Laddie, lie near me… _

***

 

Nothing had prepared Anders for what he found when he stepped into his bedchamber.

“What are you doing here?”

John wore nothing but a sleep shirt. He stood next to the bed like a cat caught in a creamery. 

“Forgive me. I didn’t intend on trespassing,” he replied, color rushing to his cheeks. In the large, billowing shirt, the stump of his right arm was out of sight, but, as a reflex, he put his hand over it to hide the limb from Anders. “When I asked the servants to take me to my sleeping quarters, they brought me to this room. I should have suspected it was your bedchamber, since I found Tiolam waiting by the door.” The vixen was already curled up in a ball on top of a folded blanket like she ow n ed the place. “But I did not realize where I was, until I l ay in the bed a few minutes ago and noticed the pillows smelled like you.” 

Anders glanced back at the door, now closed. “The guards and the servants probably assumed we’d be sleeping together…”

“It’s not their fault,” John defended them. “They couldn’t have known…” He moved to the chest at the foot of the bed, where he had left his kilt, vest and coat. “Just allow me a few minutes to get dressed and I’ll be gone.”

Anders stepped forward, caught his forearm and stopped John before he could reach for his clothes. “No. It would be very rude of me to kick you out at this hour of the night. I suspect the only sleeping place left around here are the stables.”

John stared at the hand on his arm. “Well, in this case… I’ll make do with the daybed…”

Anders let go of him. He was relieved John wasn’t insisting on them sharing the actual bed. Politeness prescribed that Anders  should offer the larger bed to John an d t ake the daybed himself, but the last thing he wanted was to enter in any kind of argument. The fewer words they exchanged, the safer it would be.

He gently pushed Tiolam off the spare blanket. She punished him by nibbling on his fingers. The bites were more playful than malevolent.

John sat down on the daybed by the window, two creases marking his forehead between his eyebrows. “Thank you,” he said in a whisper when Anders gave him the blanket, but the scowl remained on his face.

Leaving him to his thoughts, Anders drew the curtains of the bed and used them as a changing screen.

Tiolam was fully awake now, and once Anders got into bed, she spent the next minutes hunting down his legs by jumping on his toes, front paws first, every time he moved his feet under the covers. He had to grip her by the scruff of the neck and dra g her to his chest so she would calm down. She sneezed on his shoulder, but soon, her head tucked under his chin, she drifted into slumber.

In an odd way, to know John  was  only three yards away, the other side of the velvet drape, bothered him as much as it comforted him.  He followed the metallic rattling of the candle snuffer, when John took it from the mantle piece, and then, tracked his footsteps around the room as he killed the light.

John reached the daybed again and uttered an audible sigh as he sat down on it. “This isn’t how I imagined our marriage,” he confided out loud.     

Anders opened his eyes and stared at the curtain. “It’s exactly how I imagined it. Funny how it managed to disappoint two people with very different expectations.”

There was a ruffling sound: either from the borrowed blanket or John’s clothes. “I’m not disappointed… at least not in you.”

“You were singing a very different tune only a couple weeks ago,” Anders pointed out.  

“I’m deeply sorry I said those things.” John’s voice wore a thick coat of sadness and remorse.

The fire in the hearth crackled in the silence of the bedchamber. The flames drew shapes and northern lights through the draping surrounding Anders’ bed. 

John spoke up again. “You know that old cliché: ‘you don’t miss something until it’s gone’? I missed you more after you left the Gull’s Nest than during the two moons I was on the battlefield in Archerwall. Do you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because when I was on the battlefield, I still had your love and a purpose. I was fighting for your safety: to give you a brighter future. I fought to be able to ride back to you. But when we parted at the Gull’s Nest, you were angry and hurt. I doubted you still had any love or even any respect  left for me . And it felt like being amputated a limb once again.”

Anders pulled a face, even though John could not see it. “Charming…”  

“Let me explain,” John insisted. “Sometimes, I can still feel the fingers on my right hand aching – but I don’t have a right hand anymore, let alone fingers. Yet, it’s exactly like my arm’s still there. I lost that part of me, and I can’t stand the idea that it’s never going to come back. I felt the same way when you left. Without you I’m just half a man: incomplete, unbalanced, on the verge of falling.”    

Burying his fingers into Tiolam’s fur and hugging her like a child would do with their favorite plush toy, Anders let his husband’s speech sink in. He could relate to the sensation John described, at least to an extent. “ _ ‘Out of sight, out of mind _ ’:  _ what a lying proverb _ ,” he thought! Even when separated; even in conflict, when their bond seemed irrevocably severed, they still haunted each other’s soul and guts. 

Being John’s phantom limb was not an idea that appealed to him, however.  “Your father picked me in hope I could save you from yourself, and in a way I think that’s what you want from me as well, but I can’t be that for you. I’m nobody’s savior. I’m not a part of you either. I’m my own person - with everythin g that come s with it: even the aspects that displease you.”  

He waited for an objection, a response of any kind, but it never came. From John’s breathing, Anders knew he was still awake, but his spouse failed to comment or answer.  Anders wanted John to realize the depth of what he had put him through – to recognize how much he had hurt him, and so far, no matter the number of apologies, it would not sate Anders’ thirst for justice and reparations.

***

 

Anders woke late with a morning wood, and, for the first time in his life, felt ashamed about it. The shame came not so much from the erection itself, but from his mind’s inability to control his own body. While his head wanted to stay strong and unwavering, his body still expressed the weaker need to be touched, kissed and cared for. Frustrated, he rolled onto his back and tried to make the arousal go away.

He found himself alone in the bed. Tiolam was gone. He noticed that the bed curtain facing the door was drawn open about a foot wide, even though Anders distinctly remembered having shut it all the way the night before.

He left the bed and stretched his back, his toes warming up in the patch of sunlight coming from the window. The blanket John had used the night before was neatly folded on the daybed and the man was nowhere to be seen.

A knock on the door and Anders’ chamberlain appeared, perfectly timed, as ever. He carried in his master’s breakfast tray and a jug of hot water for his morning wash up. He offered to send in a chambermaid to help him get dressed, but Anders refused.

“Have you seen my husband this morning, Thompson?”

“I did, sir. He  had his breakfast in the kitchen and then left for today’s council.”

Of course, Anders remembered. This morning the clan chieftains, along with other courtiers, druids and city governors, gathered to organize Ty and Dawn’s premarital trials.

Anders thanked Thompson and the chamberlain took his leave.

After giving his face and armpits a quick clean up and pleating his kilt, Anders got hungry.

On the breakfast tray, next to the honeyed porridge and dried fruits, la y a branch of pine, with long needles still attached. He didn’t touch it and left it on the tray. Pine branches were usually used as a courting present: one of the many symbols of marriage. He didn’t give much thought to it. This was probably a gesture from the castle staff since the Johnsons would soon be celebrating a wedding… if the trials were completed with success, that is…

He headed to the private parlor as soon as he finished his breakfast. The council was already over, the dignitaries exiting the room in whispering pairs. Anders couldn’t see what was going on in the room, but from the angry exclamations, he could safely assume that some heated argument was taking place inside.

“I have every right to be here:  a member of my family is getting married!”

The voic e was John’s. Anders’ heart dropped.

“Your place is in prison at the very least! You shouldn’t even be alive! ” The other voice was Allan Duncan’s. “With all due respect, Lord Tyrone, I hope you’ll do the right thing once the wedding week is over and you’ll have this war criminal and his spouse arrested. I would be very sorry if you and your family put yourselves in a position of getting accused of aiding and abiding known fugitives!”

“I doubt I’ll be very inclined to get my brother-in-law and my own brother arrested to celebrate my honeymoon,” Ty pointed out coldly.  

“You would go against the orders of the Great Lord, your own liege?”

“Ty, no,” John interposed. “Don’t say anything more that could be held against you…”

“Your uncle knows the law, Sir Allan.” The new voice was a feminine one. Anders peeked between the shoulders of two tall Blackwood soldiers. Dawn’s mother, Lady Fiona, stood in protest. “No criminal accused of treason against the federation can be judged and sentenced without a vote of the chieftains. And yet, in spite of the law, Lord Duncan condemned John Mitchell to death without our consent.”

“You don’t know the law that well, Lady Keir,” Allan Duncan interjected, “since it is written that a war criminal, in times of war, can be judged by the Great Lord along with two other fellow chieftains and sentenced as they see fit.”

“Duncan becoming Great Lord wasn’t something we voted on either,” Lord Douglas grunted from where he  was sitting at the council table.  

“Anders Mitchell surrendered the golden torc to the mistress of Brastàl,” Allan reminded them all. “In turn, she chose to appoint my lord and uncle as the official successor!”

“If this is true and Ann acted of her own accord, then Duncan is indeed Lord Regent,” Ellar Douglas, John’s uncle, agreed, “but only until the chieftains get together to vote and elect the definitive Great Lord. I’m sure Lord Robert hasn’t forgotten about it, but we Douglas es are still waiting for the invitation.”

“If all the chieftains agree I should answer for my actions in Archerwall, then I’ll accept my fate,” John declared. Anders tried to move and catch a glimpse of him, but the crowd blocking the parlor door was too compact. “However, I think I deserve a fair trial. It has to be done in a lawful manner, with all the parties being present.”

Allan Duncan bared teeth again. “Why are we even listening to you? You have no power here. To add the insult to the injury, you are still sharing bed with one of our enemies.” He pointed an accusatory finger at John. “Let’s not forget that his spouse is one of the Norse people! Anders Mitchell sided with those gods-worshipping bastards, st ruck a deal with their leader, and now he’s spying on us for them. That’s the only way he could have escaped from Carraig!” Murmurs of approbations came in support of his words.

Too absorbed in what was going on in the parlor, Anders had gone unnoticed from the clans people, but he sensed that would soon change. He stepped back as silently as possible. He had to get out of  t here before he’d get lynched by an angry mob.

“These are all lies and you better swallow them,” John roared. “I won’t let you speak ill of my husband and spread those ignominious calumnies!”

“ENOUGH,” Dawn ordered. “This is enough! There is a reason why that sort of talk is prohibited during wedding celebrations!  __ I won’t tolerate any more of this! ”  

Anders didn’t doubt all those prideful men would roll over and beg for Dawn’s forgiveness, but he wouldn’t stay to witness it. Staying out of sight and out of the way for the rest of the day was his best bet.

He reached the top of the stairs and was crossing the walkway overlooking the interior courtyard on the top floor when Aklànd’s temple druid claimed the center of the courtyard.  Clansmen and women along with the courtiers and a good number of the house employees gathered around him to hear the official announce of the trials. Anders stopped in his tracks behind a section of  the  wall to listen, making sure to stay out of sight.

“Following the request of Lady Dawn Ellie Selka Arcam Keir, first heiress of her clan, and by decision of the council, she and the man she covets will be submitted to three trials. It has been decided the three spirits putting their union to the test would be Lio, Vàt and Frec.”

“The hills, the ocean and the deer,” Anders murmured under his breath.

“If, by the will of the spirits, they succeed, Lady Keir shall be allowed to tie her wrist to the one of Sir Tyrone Johan Creag Woodden Johnson, Lord of Aklànd.”

It wouldn’t be long until the news was repeated on every public plac e in the city.

Anders had no intention on sticking around after the announcement, however. He got away th r ough an opened door and into the North wing of the castle. He had missed the part where the druid announced when the trials would begin, but Anders had to take the opportunity of everybody being distracted to make a subtle exit.  He regretted having told his guards to stay at the door of his room.

He had to find a place where he wouldn’t cross anybody’s path? The library! It was desert most of the time, but even emptier during clans gathering. In times like these, people preferred drinking and chatting rather than reading.

Anders had nearly reached the door of the library when…

“Sir!”  

_ “Shit.” _

Along with Allan Duncan, Zeb was in the top three of people Anders wished to avoid today.

“It’s unacceptable,” Zeb complained when he caught up with his master. “The servants  did n’t let me come into the castle last night! I had to sleep in the stables like a beggar!”

Anders had observed John’s famous scowl often enough to be able to mimic it almost perfectly. He aimed a credible replica at Zeb. “I really don’t have the time to deal with you right now…”

“I won’t sleep with the horses another night,” Zeb insisted, unabashed. “I’m not a hobo! I’m Milord’s personal healer!”

From around the corner appeared an unexpected saving grace. “Axl! Come here,” Anders hailed his brother.

The tall heir approached with a clueless expression. 

“Axl, this is Zeb. He’s John’s healer and he’s looking for a place to sleep. I’m sure you can help him.”

“How is it my-”

“Perfect! That’s settled,” Anders cut his brother off. He patted the two young men on their backs , pushing them toward one another. “I have a sneaky feeling you two are going to get along like two peas in a pod. Now, of you’ll excuse me, I have important matters to attend…” Those important matters included laying low and waiting for the dust John had lifted to settle. “And if anybody asks: you haven’t seen me.”

The library door was ajar and let Anders in with a creak. After making sure no one, other than Axl and Zeb, had seen him get in, Anders locked it from the inside.

His next step was to get parchment and ink, which he found on a shelf next to the genealogy section.

On the writing desk, a book of love prose la y opened on page eighty-nine.  _ “I would’ve adored you, in thawing snow and with the remains of my heart scattered across the moors,” _ said the first line.

_ “Utter nonsense,” _ Anders thought with a snigger. He snapped the book shut and pushed it aside to make space for his paper, quill and ink bottle. Then, he went skimming through the book shelves and came back with a pile of various law, history and diplomacy treaties. He spen t the next hours reading and taking notes of anything that could be remotely useful. 

 

***

 

Some time after noon, noises at the door tor e him from the pages. 

“Anders?”

He stood, went  to the door and listened.

“I’m alone,” Dawn said on the other side of the door. “There is nobody around.”

Anders unlocked, unlatched and cracked it open. “How did you know I was h ere?”

“Axl.”

“That figures,” he grunted. “Does anyone else know I’m here?”

“I don’t think so.”   

He opened wider. “Alright, come in.”

She lifted up her skirts to step across the threshold.

“I thought you’d spend the last hours before your trial with Ty,” he commented once she was inside and the lock was back on the door. “When is it beginning, by the way?”

“Our first trial is tonight, from sunset to sunrise.” She walked to the desk and took a look at the pile of books Anders had gathered there. “I love Ty with all my heart, but he is not the best to be around right now.”

“Let me guess: he’s fussing and fretting.”

“Precisely.” She flipped through Anders’ notes without really reading anything. “I understand why he worries, but he’s going to drive me insane.”

“Seems like we’re both here to escape the consequences of our love life,” he observed.  

She took Anders’ stack of paper and waved it on his direction in mild despair.  “Tell me you’re working on something I can help you with; anything to distract my brain.”

“I’m trying my best to save my own arse,” he explained, taking his notes back from her. “But so far, I didn’t find any loophole in the law or any diplomacy device that could help me prevent John and I from being arrested. It’s going to be difficult now that dear hubby opened his big mouth and spoke about a retrial.” He sighed and dropped the notes back on his desk.   

Dawn grabbed an ink bottle and a quill and placed them on the large desk, across from Anders. “Let’s put our heads together. I’m sure we can find a solution.” A fierce determination gleamed in her eyes.

They dived together into reading and plotting until the sun outside the windows took its course downward and Dawn had to leave.

They hadn’t f ound any viable solution to Anders’ problem and half an hour before dusk, he had to call it quits for the day. He had no candles handy to make light in the library and anyway, he planned on attending the trial.

Since he had disappeared  for the whole day , the guards at his bedroom door expressed their relief to see him alive and well when he returned.

Tiolam was alone inside the room. She had chewed up the bottom of the window curtain and was proud to present Anders with a shred of fabric. He pulled it from between her teeth with a sigh and assessed the mess. He had little time left before the trial began. He’d call a servant to clean up afterward.

Anders wolfed down the food left for him  on the nigh ts tand. A new branch of pine decorating his food tray found a use and he dusted the crumbs on his lap with it. Then, he dressed appropriately for staying a good part of the night outside: with thick woolen socks in his boots and his brand-new felt cloak. His hair was getting a bit on the longer side these days so he gave it a quick brush before he went. 

Leaving Tiolam in the bedchamber unsupervised would result in more havoc and destruction. She protested against the collar and leash, but the idea of getting fresh air finally won her over. The fox trotted ahead, pulling on the leash while the guards escorted Anders outside, to the castle baileys.

The night was windier than he expected. On the highest accessible part of the battlements, the clans’ people already chose seats in the tiered rows of benches installed on the walkway for the occasion. Anders spotted Axl and Zeb, sitting together and laughing about something, but he chose an available space on the same bench as the Keir family. He got suspicious looks from two men of Clan Douglas and a lady from the MacCallums sitting in front. He swallowed down and forced himself to ignore them. John was a no-show, as far as he could tell.

Tiolam sheltered herself under the bench, sulking and resenting Anders for deceiving her into thinking they were going for a longer walk.

A mile down the promontory where the castle stood, on the top of the city wall, peddlers lit small campfires where they roasted meat to sell it to the Aklànders massed there to watch the trial.

Anders leant toward Lady Fiona to ask her: “I’m sorry, I’ve been out of the loop for most of the day. What are we supposed to be looking at exactly?”

She acknowledged him, reserved and somewhat distant. Allan Duncan’s allegations must have gone to her as well. “Dawn and Tyrone are going to be left blindfolded at the top of two different hills outside the city,” she said, pointing at the North-West. “They don’t know where the other is and in order to locate one another, they have to set fire to a large beacon of wood, hay and oil on their own hill. Then, once they’re reunited, they have to find the third beacon, which is on another hill, and light it before the sun rises.”   

His gaze followed the direction. The hilly landscape stretched as far as the eyes could see. “Do they have a flint and stone? Anything to make fire?”

“No. They’re going to have to be crafty.”

“I see.”

It was a good thing Johan used to bring his heirs in the forest when they were young and show them how to fend for themselves in the wild. It was part of becoming a man, according to the Johnson patriarch. Ty knew how to create sparks and flames with certain types of rocks or with pieces of wood, using friction, but the whole process was long and tedious, and if Ty or Dawn failed to ignite their beacon, finding one another in the vast and treacherous hills at night could become dangerous if not impossible. 

When the very last light of the day disappeared in violet tints over the sky line, the herald blew his horn. Another horn on the city wall relayed the sound, and then another in the pastures, until the signal reached the hills and was so faint the audience at the castle could barely hear it anymore.

_ “It’s beginning,” _ Anders thought. He envisioned Ty taking off his blindfold, disorientated, the palm of his hands moist with stress, bare-chested and shivering in the cold wind. At least Anders didn’t have to go through that anymore.  _ “Been there, done that.” _

“Are you worried for your brother?”

“Not especially,” he said, answering Lady Fiona’s question. “I think he can handle it. He’s one of those fit people, you know.” He cocked his head to the side. “What about you? Fearing for your daughter?”

“I do worry. I’m a mother,” she conceded with a tight smile. “But there is also a good reason why she’s my first heiress. She’s made of a harder metal than it might appear.”

Anders nodded in agreement, the image of his own child at the back of his mind. He wished Moira, as she grew up, would turn out to be at least a little like Dawn.

Lady Fiona put an arm around her wife’s shoulders in comfort. They both stared at the dark hills, waiting with more trepidation than most of the spectators for an orange dot of firelight to appear somewhere in the distance.

Anders inspected his fingers and bit down on a particularly bothering hangnail. The night was going to be long.  

The wind picked up, making the decorative banners around the walkway flap frantically. The servants had to bring oil frequently to keep the lamps on the battlements running. This roughening of the weather could help Ty and Dawn just as much as it could be their downfall. Wind helped fire spread rapidly, or could extinguish a weak flame.   

An hour later, people on the bleachers got excited, convinced they had seen dancing lights up the pastures, but it was all for nought since they turned out to be lanterns, carried by the riders coming back to the castle after they dropped Ty and Dawn in the hills.

The excitement died down. After another uneventful half-hour of waiting, a handmaiden brought to the guests tin boxes full of hot embers for them to place in a compartment under their bench to warm it. Anders was freezing and he welcomed the luxury with relief.   

“There you are! Where were you?”

Anders turned his head toward the familiar voice. John stood there in a riding outfit: a tam hat, a long coat and a glove  on  his left hand; the tip of his nose reddened from the wind. He carried two bear pelts, folded and tucked under his arm.    

“I could ask the same about you,” Anders remarked.  

“I brought this from your room,” John replied, without answering the question just yet. He dropped the bear pelts on the empty sitting space at Anders’ right side. “I figured if I found you here, we could both use a bit of warmth.” John took the pelt on the top and wrapped himself in it the best he could before he sat beside his husband. “I was riding with the party that just came back to the city,” John explained.  “I was banished from being part of the council, so Ty asked me to be among those who’d bring him to his first trial. He rode with my cousin Owìn on her horse, but I was the one to lead Tyrone up the hill. ” 

“How was he when you last saw him?”

“Nervous.”

“That’s all?” Anders snorted. “I’m surprised he wasn’t pissing his kilt, to be honest.”

John took his hat off. Stray curls fell in front of his eyes. He attempted to flatten them back on his head. “So? What about you? Where were you go  all day?”

“I was at the library, sneezing in old dusty law books. I ’ve been  trying to find a way to keep us out of jail, after your little performance this morning in front of the chieftains.”

John remained unperturbed despite the reproach. “The chieftains are the ones who elected me Great Lord in the first place. It’s only fair that they get to decide my fate. I have to show them that unlike Duncan, I respect their opinion.”

“Even if that leads us both to the gallows?”

“I’ll make sure it won’t come to that,” John assured him.  

“How?”

“I don’t know yet, but the spirits will inspire me in due time.”

Anders didn’t have enough faith in invisible entities to let it comfort him. “Somehow, I’m not reassured.”

They both shifted in their seat s to let Padraig Keir make his way to the end of the row. Dawn’s brother went straight to the bench where most of MacCallums sat, and he engaged in some sort of transaction with a young member of the clan.

“People are betting on who’s going to light their beacon first between Ty and Dawn,” Anders informed his husband. “I’ve seen coins changing hands since the beginning of the evening.”

John arranged his kilt around his legs. “Are you participating?”

“No.”

“You’re not interested at all?”

“Depends. I always gamble carefully,” Anders said. He scooted closer to his spouse and lowered his voice. “It means I avoid playing with idiots.” The remark referred to Padraig Keir, whose gambling shenanigans were notorious in the West of the North Hills. Anders didn’t want the Ladies Keir to hear him badmouthing their son.

Pensive, John scratched his chin. “Do you consider me to be an idiot?”

Anders threw him a glance, an eyebrow raised. “You really want me to answer that?”

“Let me rephrase it,” John said. “Would you consider betting with me?”  

“Money? None of us has any, in case you forgot,” Anders pointed out. “If we’re both eating these days, it’s thanks to my brother’s and Lord Douglas’ largesse.”   

“I was thinking about something  other than money...” John paused for effect. “What about the loser owes the winner a favor?”

“What kind of favor?” Anders was treading on a slippery slope there. Just by asking this question, he was already losing his footing.

Padraid Keir had moved to another bench and was in a quest to squeeze money out of another clansman. John’s gaze followed the scheme in progress.  “Nothing unsavory, indecent or unlawful, of course,” he reassured Anders. 

_ “Where is the fun in that?”  _ Anders would have replied in any other circumstances: if the man suggesting the bet wasn’t his husband, for whom he had already very complicated feelings. He had no idea what outcome to expect if he agreed on playing this game with John. What would John ask for a favor if Anders lost? What would he expect him to do? The prospect of owing something to John, in light of their recent arguments, wasn’t his favorite.

At the same time, it was like someone just handed him a closed box labeled “ _ do not open _ ”. If he chose to open the box, he exposed himself to whatever was inside. If he didn’t, he’d probably drive himself crazy wondering what was under the lid.  

He’d l ie if he said there wasn’t a thrill to the uncertainty. “If I agree to this shady bet of yours: how do I know you’re going to play fair?”  

John foraged into his sporran and pulled out a small, golden ring. “This will be my token. The ring belonged to my aunt Moira. Uncle Ellar gave it to me as a present.” He made it roll between his forefinger and thumb. “I’m holding on to it in hope I’ll be able to gift it to my mother.” He put the ring in Anders’ hand. “If you win this bet, you get to keep it until I fulfill the favor I owe you. If you lose, I hold your token until you fulfill mine.”

Anders weighed the piece of jewellery in his hand. It was nothing more than a simple gold band. There seemed to be letters engraved on it, but the lack of proper lighting rendered it unreadable. He gave the ring back.

John put it in his sporran. “Do you have something of valor to use as a token?”

Anders reached for his neck instinctively. “I do.”

“Good. Since I was the one to challenge you, you get first pick.” John scanned the dark hills in the distance. Still no sign of any fire. “So? Who do you think will light their beacon first?”  

Taking his time to think, Anders gave his end of the leash to Tiolam as a chew toy so her boredom wouldn’t lead to misbehaving.

Ty was skilled and ingenious, but he would probably use up all his time and energy worrying about his bride, forgetting he has a fire to light.  “My bet’s on Dawn.”

“That means Tyrone’s my champion,” John confirmed. He reached his hand out. “Let’s shake on it.”

Just as Anders agreed, the wind picked up again and it started drizzling.

“That’s not good…” With the rain, the bride and groom’s trial would become a lot more difficult. 

“No it’s not,” John agreed, letting go of Anders’ hand to use the plaid of his kilt as a hood.

Suddenly, a gasp came from Anders’ left. Lady Ellie was pointing a finger at  t he horizon. “Look!” On the top of a hill, a smallish dot of light was growing bigger and bigger by the second. A collective “oh” ignited the crowd gathered on the bailey’s walkway.

“Who’s beacon is it?” Anders immediately questioned his husband.

“Tyrone’s.”

“Bugger!”

“I win! It’s time to pay up,” John said, with a playful smile that illuminated his features in a way no candle could. It was such a rare occurrence that Anders was struck with awe for a few seconds, before he remembered to reach into his collar and untie his necklace.          

The pendant in his possession, John took his time to examine it. He ran his thumb over the metal shape representing the tutelary spirit’s upper lip. It prompted Anders to bit down his own. It was strange to see the necklace in John’s hand again.

“You’ll get it back, don’t worry,” John stated when he caught him staring, mistaking Anders’ fascination for concern.

“Once I’ve accomplished your dark deeds...”

John chuckled lightly and pocketed the necklace. “Yes, exactly.”

That interaction was so unlike the ones they’ve had since the beginning of spring… Anders had never walked on eggshells with anybody before, but with John, he was constantly on his guar d , weighting every word, expecting the conversation to turn into a nasty argument any moment. The tension between them was still there. Anders could feel it, in the way John moved and spoke around him, but cracks had started forming in the wall, and for a split second, he saw through them; a glimpse of the lively young man who wedded him last autumn.

The sky sprayed its drizzle on the coast of Aklànd for another hour. The couple under trial hadn’t ma d e any new progress. Only Ty’s beacon burnt in the night. “Come on, Dawn. You can do it,” Anders encouraged her in a whisper, between clattering teeth. The bear pelt John brought from his bedroom still lay unused on the bench, but Anders stubbornly refused to use it. Some of the spectators, deterred by the weather, went to bed, but the Mitchells had a moral duty to stay until sunrise.

The servants brought mulled wine. Anders accepted the cup eagerly, after one of the guards tasted it for poison and deemed it safe.

Only a few minutes after the rain stopped, a second spot of light appeared on a hill about a mile away from the first one. In his enthusiasm, John elbowed him in the ribs so hard that Anders cursed and nearly dropped his wine mug.

Lady Fiona and Lady Ellie jumped to their feet, clapping wholeheartedly even though their daughter was too far to hear. The citizens celebrating on the outer walls cheered along. His feet propped up, Dawn’s brother counted his money.

John was on the edge of his seat. “Now they have to find each other… and locate the third beacon.”   

“I hope they’re going to play it smart and one of them will stay put,” Anders commented, licking off his fingers a few drops of spicy wine that escaped the mug when his husband elbowed him. “If they both walk in the night, toward the other’s beacon at the same time, they might miss each other and waste a lot of time going back and forth until they finally stumble upon one another.”    

John straightened his shoulders. “If they are truly meant to be together: the spirits will show them the way,” he affirmed. “Frea did it for me during our first trial. The forest was vast. I could have lost you for days, but the spirit guided me to you.” He gave his husband a sidelong look to gauge his reaction, but even if Anders was aware of the scrutiny, he did not return it.

“Do you ever think about the fact our wedding was part of Duncan’s plan to overthrow you?”

Drawing the bear pelt closer to wrap himself up a bit better, John twisted in his seat. “I’m not sure I’m following…”  

“We failed our second trial,” Anders reminded him. “We had until sundown to tame the other’s horse, but it was night when we finally made it back. Yet, the council let us get married. Ever wondered why Duncan let that happen? I think he must have suspected he only had to be patient. Instead of taking the federation by force right away, turning all the chieftains against himself, he let you tie your wrist to mine ; being married to me would have undermined your credibility or power soon enough. He couldn’t even know at the time how right he was. Only a few moons later the country was invaded by the same people I get my strange looks from, furthering his own agenda. If I didn’t hate him that much, I think I’d admire his clairvoyance. ”

It was Anders’ turn to observe his husband’s reaction. John stared at the hills ahead, his eyebrows knitting closer and lower, like the dark clouds announcing bad weather. The conversation was over, as far as John was concerned.

Anders had not brought this up in hope to anger his husband or reduce him to silence. John wanted him back? Fine. But he had to realise that staying with Anders might compromise his chances of ever getting Brastàl back.

In a very old-fashioned way, John seemed to entertain the idea that sticking with his spouse no matter what would attract the sympathy of the other chieftains to his cause. But it became clear that a good number of them saw Anders as an element of trouble at best and a threat at wors t .

When John and he had first met in Brastàl just before their marriage, Anders had warned his then-fiancé that he was a “poisonous gift”, and now, more than ever, he had become a political liability. If John truly wanted him back, he had to embrace the risks inherent with sharing Anders’ life and bed.

Tired of the never-ending wait, a few more noblemen and women left the walkway to go back to their tents or rooms. The citizens’ celebration on the city wall went quieter as hours passed. On the hills’ front: no new development. The two first beacons burnt weakly, but the third one, wherever it was, Ty and Dawn had yet to light it. 

Utterly bored and cold, Tiolam lay underneath Anders’ cloak, nestled to the side of his left thigh, her head resting on a fold of his kilt. She snored lightly with every breath.

He envied her. Her slumber made Anders drowsy, and he was already exhausted. The night before had been short and emotional. He could barely feel his legs, numb from sitting in the cold for so long. He fought bravely for a long while, but his thoughts were getting less and less coherent.

He battled to keep his eyes open.

Voices around him, close and distant, mixed in an indistinct blur.

 

***

Through the veil of his eyelids – light, more light. Freezing, cramped: his neck hurt from the awkward angle. The rough wool of a coat scratched at his temple and cheekbone. The shape of a shoulder moved against his head.

Anders’ eyes fluttered open. Thoughts and images fell into place like scattered puzzle pieces.

The shoulder belonged to John. “Good morning,” he said, looking down at Anders who started to stir from sleep, leaning heavily at his flank.

Embarrassed and alarmed, Anders rubbed his face with vigor and wiped his mouth as he rose from his half-slumped position. The second bear pelt slipped from his back and landed on the bench. John must have covered him with it sometim e during the night.

The East was a blaze of orange and pink, only softened by a herd of puffy clouds. A ascension of larks flew over the castle’s northern tower.

“What happened? I can’t see the last beacon,” Anders rasped, confused.

“They did light it before sunrise, about an hour ago,” John informed him. “Their first trial was a success.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”  It was frustrating for two reason s : Anders had missed the final act of the whole show, and he would have preferred avoiding the humiliation of falling asleep on John and drooling on his shoulder.

“You seemed peaceful,” John provided as an excuse. “Peace is a rare commodity these days.”

The guards blew the carnyx from the city gate. The battle horn announced Ty and Dawn’s triumphal return. John smiled, weary and mild. “Let’s go to the courtyard and welcome your brother and his bride.” He stood, helping Anders back on his feet as he went.  

Anders cleared his throat. “I fell asleep on you, but it doesn’t mean-”

“I know. Don’t worry. I wasn’t expecting anything.”

Wise decision. Anders made sure not to get his hopes up  either . If they didn’t end up in jail, soon, John might be forced to choose between him and Brastàl...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot to Katyushha for being a true friend, a wonderful beta reader and an awesome inspiration. 
> 
> Also, the amazing drawing you can admire at the beginning is the work of dragon4488!
> 
> As usual, I cherish your comment, dearest readers. They're food to my soul and fuel for my writing fingers ;)


	10. Swim or Sink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody!  
> I know I haven't updated for a long while now. I'm even afraid to check when was the last time I did. I haven't abandonned the story, I swear. The thing is that I got a new job at a museum. A very cool job but soooo demanding. I just didn't have time for writing. But things should slow down soon, so, I think you can expect a new update sooner. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience, and big thanks to the few of you who are still there. :)

 

“A sheep?”

“A sheep.”

“A dead sheep?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I just told you,” Ty insisted. “A beheaded sheep! Ouch! Ow!”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Zeb apologized, pulling carefully on the suture needle. During his trial in the hills, Ty fell in the dark and injured his shoulder on a sharp rock. The healer was busy stitching the wound. “Try not to move,” Zeb instructed. “I’m nearly done.”

Ty took a sharp intake of air when the needle pierced his skin again. “Anyway,” he went on, turning toward Anders again to resume their conversation, “what I was trying to explain is that when Dawn and I came back to the city, a beheaded sheep was hanging upside down from a wood post in the middle of the marketplace. Whoever put the carcass there last night wrapped it in blue and green tartan, not exactly the Mitchells’ pattern, but close enough.”

Anders gave his brother a whiskey flask so the alcohol would numb his pain a little. “And you think the sheep was a message for me?”

The castle rules prohibited alcohol in the guard house, but Anders had the intimate conviction most rules didn’t apply to him. Besides, apart from John and Zeb, the two Johnson brothers were alone in the officers’ quarters.

With a grateful nod, Ty accepted the flask and took a long gulp. “Well, they displayed the sheep’s head on a pike, and I’m not sure what they used, but they dyed the wool on its head yellow.”

“Yellow?”

With the hand holding the flask, Ty made a vague gesture in the direction of his brother’s head.

“Like my hair? That’s distasteful,” Anders commented when the understood the hint.    

“I’d rather say it’s concerning,” John intervened. The lack of sleep showed on his face and the drizzle from the previous night made his hair even more tousled than usual.

Anders huffed in derision. “So far all the Scarecrow has done is burn stuff, poison rats, slaughter sheep and make empty threats. I’m beginning to think they are just a bunch of bed-wetting pansies.”  

Ty grimaced in pain once again when Zeb tightened the knot in the suture thread. He emptied the flask down his throat. “Something tells me the message wasn’t only directed at you. They planned on me seeing the sheep on my way back from my first trial. They must not be happy I’m protecting you.”

Anders thought about Allan Duncan, what he said the day before: about aiding and abiding known fugitives. Ty exposed himself to retaliation by sheltering John and him.

“That sort of demonstration is starting to scare the citizens as well,” Ty continued. “Some of them seem genuinely concerned we have a sorcerer in our midst. An old man approached me this morning. He told me you’ve crossed his pasture when you arrived in Aklànd and that, in the next week, three of his cows gave birth to stillborn calves.”

Anders took the flask back from his brother and was disappointed to find it empty. “Oh yes, that was me,” he said in a mock admission of guilt. “I cursed his livestock.”

“Is that true?” Zeb stared at his master, forgetting he still held a blood-soiled needle between his fingers.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Zeb,” Anders exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “Are you really that thick? Don’t you think that if I had that kind of powers, I’d do something more useful than giving free abortions to some peasant’s cows?”

“Breathe, Anders,” John advised, knowing his consort’s tendency to take his frustration out on the healer.  

Zeb cleaned his bloody hands on a cloth and packed his stitching kit, sulking a little.  

“If I did have sorcerer powers, however,” Anders hypothesized, “I think I’d conjure up a big pile of gold out of thin air… and also a barrel of eternal whiskey, but not some contraband shit from Pine Port: it would be Firness whiskey of the best quality. And, of course, I’d catapult Herrick back to his island… and Duncan along with him, see how he likes volcanic ashes and year-round droughts.”

“What about you, John? What would you do?” Ty wasn’t of the curious kind, but the question escaped him nonetheless. It was probably the first time he addressed his brother-in-law by his first name.

“I think speculating about sorcery is bad luck,” John affirmed, “but if I did have powers, I would make sure my friends George and Annie were somewhere safe.” His eyes veiled with sadness all of a sudden and Anders watched his Adam apple bob as he swallowed. “I miss them both greatly.”

Looking at his husband at this moment of vulnerability gave Anders a pinch of renewed compassion. Sometimes, he forgot Brastàl wasn’t only about an estate to John, or a title. It was also about people he cared for: people he had loved long before he even set his eyes on Anders.

Zeb fastened the strap of his medical bag, ready to leave. “If you want my advice, you should take some rest, my lord,” he told Ty. “Your wound will heal faster.”

“I’ll be going in a moment,” Ty reassured him. “My fiancée has already gone to her apartments and I’m pretty sure she’s asleep by now. I should take her example.”

John stifled a yawn. “I should hit the hay as well. I’ll accompany you, Zeb.” He leant down to take the bear pelts he borrowed from Anders’ room to keep them both warm during the night. “I’ll bring those back to your bedchamber,” he told his spouse. Anders handed him the key before John followed Zeb out of the officers’ quarter and into the courtyard.

Once they were alone, Ty handed his brother’s a roll of bandage. “Would you mind?”

Too tired to protest, Anders started wrapping it around Ty’s shoulder.

“How are things going with John? You don’t seem to be trying to pull each other’s hair out at least,” Ty remarked. “I guess it’s a good sign.”

“I guess,” Anders breathed in response. “We spoke… two nights ago,” he admitted. “He was willing to make amends for what he has put me through...”

“But?” Ty sensed there was more to it.

“But… I don’t know. It’s not like apologies erase everything… I’m not ready to stumble back in bed with him.”

Not expecting this revelation, Tyrone’s eyes grew wide. “You haven’t-”

“No we haven’t done anything yet,” Anders cut him off, anticipating the question and feeling slightly irritated by it. “He sleeps on the daybed.”

“For you, this is definitely a first!”

“No need to mock me,” Anders grunted, tightening the bandage a bit more than necessary.  

“I’m not. I’m just surprised, that’s all. But at the same time I think it’s normal. You both have to give it time.”

Anders fixed a pin through the fabric. “I’m not sure ‘time’ is something we have.”

Ty rose from his stool, struggling back on aching legs. “I should listen to Zeb and get some rest. The second trial begins tomorrow morning at dawn.”

“It begins tomorrow morning _with_ Dawn, you mean,” Anders corrected with a grin.  

“Great pun. Very funny. You should go and take a nap too. You look about as exhausted as I am.”

 

***

 

Ty and Anders took their separate ways at the top of the staircase, in the main wing of the castle. The younger Johnson headed to his own bed chamber and Anders went his way toward his, in the opposite direction, followed by two guards.

His clothes still vaguely damp from his night outside, he was looking forward to the comfort of his bed and a dry shirt.

The door of his bedroom was unlocked, which he expected giving the fact John had gone ahead of him. The latch did not quite make its usual rattling and clicking sound, however. Sadly, Anders would only register the oddity of it when it’d be too late.

He stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him, leaving the guards to take their watch outside in the corridor.

The hair on his arms stood. Something was definitely amiss.

“John?”

From the other side of the bed, behind the bed curtains and out of his eye shot, came muffled sounds - choking noises and boots sliding on the polished floor.

Out of instinct, even if he couldn’t quite figure out what was going on yet, Anders’ hands got icy and moist, as if cold sweat now flooded his veins instead of blood.

Pushed toward the bed by his own dread, he stepped forward until he could see what was happening on the other side. Nothing could have prepared him for this vision.

A tall man, his face covered with a hood, was strangling John with a piece of rope. Caught red-handed, the killer was in a hurry to finish the job.

On his knees, John’s eyes bulged out of his head and his face had gotten an ugly shade of reddish violet. His only hand clawed at his own throat to try and get rid of the rope around his neck.

Anders froze on the spot, paralyzed, unable to utter a sound and call the guards. John fought for his life in front of his eyes, but he was the one being strangled by a vision too horrific for words.Even if Anders had been armed, which he was not, he would have still been too shocked to do anything.

The killer knew a third person just arrived on the scene. It was a complication to his plan, but he was determined to at least drag one of the two men to the grave before the guards would barge in.

John was weakening and, on the verge of losing consciousness, he reached for his husband.

Something in Anders busted – like a dam from the force of an overflowing river. Somehow, his muscles sprang into action and he launched forward blindly.

He collided with John and the killer, giving John an involuntary blow to the chest with his knee in the process. But the impact was powerful enough to make the man lose grip on the rope. He lost balance and found it again at the last second, but still knocked over the washing cabinet, sending the jug and basin flying over the edge. It crashed to the floor in a deafening sound of breaking porcelain.

The killer grabbed Anders and pushed him violently to the wall. Crying out from the sudden pain in his shoulder and head, Anders lost his footing and collapsed to the floor. In an instant, the killer was on him, straddling his chest. The masked man grabbed a sharp piece of porcelain from the broken jug in a clear intent to get rid of his opponent by stabbing him.  Overpowered, Anders couldn’t even struggle.

A flash of ginger fur bolted out from underneath the bed and jumped at the hitman – all teeth on display.

Startled, the man dropped the shard of porcelain, using both hands to fight off the fox trying to bite his nose off through the hood.

Things got blurry and Anders barely registered the guards rushing into the room, finally alerted by the noise of broken porcelain and the vixen’s snarls.

The weight of the killer was lifted from his chest somehow. Anders took desperate gulps of air like a drowning man. Cold and trembling, as if he had been doused in icy water, head down, several times, he tried to sit up but failed.

Voices, shouts, movements, around him. People running into the room. A hand, gloved in leather, grabbed his arm and another touched his face. Someone called his name.

Anders made an attempt at moving his fingers – opening and closing his fists, but they were numb and tingling in the most unpleasant way. Darkness creeped around the edges of his vision and soon engulfed everything.

 

***

 

He was lying on the bottom of a glass of fresh milk, underneath the layer of cream at the surface. Scissors above his head opened and closed to cut the cream. A giant spider hung from an invisible web, upside down, its legs all twisted and tangled up.

Slowly, the layer of cream revealed its true nature as being the color of the limestone and the scissors became the shape of the cross vault ceiling. The spider was nothing else other than the wrought iron chandelier hanging from the junction between the vaults.

“Anders? Can you hear me?” The voice was close. Familiar yet different – lower, gruffer, raspier. “Axl! I think he’s waking up!”

“Where- ” Anders started to ask, disorientated. But then, he recognized the painted fresco on the wall. It represented the spirit of healing. He was in the castle’s infirmary. John was sitting next to the bed and leaning over him.

“You were unconscious,” John explained softly. His speech was laborious and his voice raw, like someone suffering from a throat infection.

“How long?”

Axl walked closer to the bed and was the one to give the answer. “You were out for about fifteen minutes after we brought you here.”

“I don’t even remember coming here.” Anders scanned his surrounding again, in hope the room could provide a clue.

“It’s not surprising. You must have blacked out,” Axl said. “When we helped you downstairs you were quite unresponsive. The lights were on but there was clearly nobody home.”

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Anders tried to sit, but John gently pressed him back on the mattress. “Stay down. You hit your head pretty bad.”

“I did?” He felt no pain there. He reached for his scalp and palpated around his skull. He flinched when he touched a sensitive bump on the right side of his head. How did he hit his head: where and why? His fuzzy brain refused to give a proper answer.

John leaned forward to rearrange the pillows around Anders and, as he did, the collar of his shirt opened, revealing some nasty bruising and burn marks around his throat.

“What happened to your neck?”

Before John could say a word, Axl expressed his own surprise.  “You don’t remember?”

“Should I?” Anders’ gaze darted back and forth from his brother to his husband.  “I… I mean… I don’t know...” He forced himself to get a grip on his last memory. “Ty and I left the guardhouse together and …. and…” He clenched his jaw, getting frustrated with himself. “I can’t recall what happened after that.”

“Does that mean you have no idea what– ” Axl began, but John interrupted him:

“I think we should let Anders rest now,” he declared, giving his young brother-in-law a pointed look.

“Fine,” Axl said, slightly vexed. “I’m going upstairs to see if there are any new developments regarding the…. events.”

“You’d be kind to let Zeb know his master woke up,” John instructed.  

“Of course, my liege.”

John’s eyes followed the young man as he left the infirmary.

By dint of grasping around on the mattress, Anders found his spouse’s sleeve and caught his attention. “What’s going on, John?” He pointed at his bruised neck. “Who did this to you?”

John lifted his fingers to his throat to cover the bruising from sight. “I’m fine. Just sore.” The semblance of a smile sent a quiver to the corner of his mouth. “I owe you my life, once again.”

Apparently, Anders had accomplished a feat, but he felt no pride, just guilt like a stone in his solar plexus. The reason for that guilt was another thing still buried in a corner of his subconscious. “Saved you from what… from whom?”

John rearranged the pillows once again. “Hush, my dear. I’ll explain later. I promise. Rest now.” He then put his hand, warm, smooth and large on Anders’ forehead, stroking a spot between his eyebrows, which soon had the desired effect of making him surrender to sleep.

 

***

 

The soft, orange halo of the setting sun surrounded the skylight above the infirmary door. Anders had slept the whole day away.

The chair by the bed was empty.  John had left his side.

With a grunt, Anders rolled onto his flank. His neck and shoulders, stiff and aching, and the throbbing in his skull indicated his body remembered things his mind still couldn’t. The memory of the injury that led him to lay in the infirmary bed was hazy: a blur without contours or details. The only thing he could recollect was that something horrible happened in his bedroom… and part of him dreaded to see the images reappear.

Murmuring voices came from the corridor outside the infirmary. They gained in intensity. In retrospect, the heated discussion might have been what had just stirred Anders from his sleep.

“What do you want me to do, mother? Hide them in a cave somewhere?”

Ty sounded angry, and rightly. Lady Johnson had a gift to make herself infuriating.

“Tell them they are not welcomed here anymore. Make a statement in front of the clans,” Lady Elizabet replied. “If you don’t do anything, you’re going to lose the sympathy of the chieftains.”

“Anders can be a pain in the neck, but he’s my brother,” Ty retorted. “I’m not going to throw him out of his own childhood home. And as far as I’m concerned, John is the true Great Lord. My allegiance goes to him.”

“Speak lower, son,” Elizabet hushed him. “These are dangerous words!”

Anders’ right fist clenched around a handful of pillow. Of course, the matriarch of Clan Johnson wanted to get rid of him. Whatever happened in the morning had strengthened her conviction that Anders was a bad element: the rotten apple threatening the rest of the basket. At least Ty was showing a certain amount of loyalty.

“All I can do for now is reinforce the security around the castle and hope this will calm the clans,” Ty said, trying to remain practical about the situation.  

“I doubt it will be enough. The rumor of the assassination attempt already spread. They are all afraid.”

The words “assassination attempt” induced a violent nausea that climbed up Anders’ throat. Whether he wished it or not: images were coming back to him already. An anonymous face, under a nettlecloth hood: a man with dark intentions had sneaked into his bedroom and violated the safety of Anders’ private space.

“Even the clansmen who don’t believe Anders is a sorcerer still think he’s bringing bad luck,” Lady Johnson went on. “This is precisely the reason why nobody but James Mitchell wanted him as a son-in-law. Now the clans see him as a liability to us all.”

“It’s not Anders’ fault if someone tried to strangle his husband,” Ty exclaimed, outraged by his mother’s accusations.

It didn’t need more to trigger Anders’ recollection. The flashes of memory, like shards of broken porcelain, fell into place. One especially stuck out : hands pulling on the ends of a rope. It explained the nasty bruising and deep friction wound he had seen earlier on John’s neck.  With only one arm left, John had been unable to defend himself. Confronted with the violence of the scene he now remembered, Anders tried his best not to vomit into his pillow.

“Why is nobody pointing their finger at the Duncans? If anybody had to be thrown out, it should be them,” Ty growled. “Robert Duncan, their chieftain, is the one who’s been financing the Scarecrow. Him and his clan are responsible for all this!”

“And yet, I’m sure most of the clansmen will be relieved to see the Duncans arrest the Mitchells.” That voice was Olaf’s.    

“I doubt it,” Ty objected. “I’m sure Lord Douglas doesn’t want his nephew to be arrested and put in jail.”

“Probably not, but I doubt he’ll interfere,” Dawn said, adding her grain of salt. Obviously, his family thought Anders to be sound asleep, or else they wouldn’t speculate so freely about his fate. They hadn’t noticed the door was ajar and weren’t aware he could hear everything. “Even the Douglases know the slightest confrontation between the clans could now lead to a full-blown civil war, and they think that with invaders at our door, it would be suicide to get divided.”

Olaf cleared his throat with what sounded like embarrassment. “Well, they are not wrong to think that way.”

“No, they’re not,” Ty echoed in a sigh.  

“Most of them won’t agree with the Mitchells heading for Brastàl jail,” Dawn added, “but they won’t dare voice their opinion.”

She had spoken as if the arrest was a certainty. Did this mean Anders’ own family had started to doubt the project of uniting the clans against Duncan to get the Mitchells’ estate back? Dawn’s every word pointed in that direction.  

“So?” Lady Elizabet was growing impatient and she goaded Ty again. “What are you going to do to sort this out?”

“Like I told you: I will put more guards around the castle and more control at the gates even during the marital trials. I will speak to the chieftains and assure them their family are not in any danger while they’re staying here.”

He had failed to convince her. “May the spirits hear you, my son,” she said, before the sounds of leather soles on the floor and the rustling of a dress accompanied her steps as she walked away.

“I hate to say that, but you know she’s mostly right, though,” Dawn told Ty once her future mother-in-law was too far to hear. “Anders and Lord Mitchell don’t deserve prison and a new trial, but the thing is that, in prison, they’d probably be safer than they are now. And if the people of the North Hills start to believe the Scarecrow’s violence is the true answer to the political crisis, soon, we’re going to have to deal with uprisings and riots everywhere in the country.”

They couldn’t dare say it out loud, but the fact remained that in the very likely case the Duncans decided to arrest John and Anders just after the wedding celebrations, nobody would lift a finger… apart from Ty, Dawn, Olaf and Axl, perhaps. And even then, they’d not be enough to prevent it from happening.

“John’s coming,” Olaf warned the others. They abandoned the subject and exchanged whispered greetings with John before they dispersed in different directions.

The door opened some more and John appeared.

Anders dropped the act of the sleeping man and pushed the covers to sit up when John walked up to the bed, carrying a tray balanced on his left arm.

‘Are you feeling any better?’

Anders rubbed his temples and hissed. “I’m pretty sure I have an angry woodpecker living in my head.” Deprived from the comfort of the pillow, his head felt twice the side and heavy. He thanked him when John put the tray down on his lap.  He eyed the bowl of broth, the piece of bread, the mug of hot infusion and realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the evening before. A small branch from a pine tree lay on the tray between the bowl of broth and the mug, a cluster of green needles at its tip. The staff demonstrated a remarkable persistence in keeping up with the wedding theme. Anders put the branch aside on the bed quilt.

A welcomed warmth spread to his fingers when he took the mug. He brought it to his lips and, as John sat in the chair next to the bed, he observed him through the steam coming from the mug. He could swear John made a point of not looking at him directly. Anders blew on the hot liquid. ‘The Scarecrow...I know now they tried to kill you,’ he dropped without warning.

John studied his face with surprise. ‘You remember it now? The memories came back?’

‘Not really…. Only vaguely… I remember someone with a hood, trying to strangle you behind the bed, but I don’t think I want the rest of the details to come back.’

John averted his eyes again, swallowing down. John might be a tough nut to crack most of the time, but Anders recognized that expression immediately.

‘Why are you looking so ashamed? It’s me who should be ashamed,’ Anders argued. ‘It was easy to call the guards, or do anything else to help you, but I was petrified at first. If I had reacted quicker, you wouldn’t have wound up with that. “ He glanced at the nasty collar of dried blood and bruises around John’s throat.  

‘You saved me.’ A frown formed on on his husband’s face: one of those often-encountered tempests advancing from the sea. ‘I’m not going to quibble about the circumstances of my rescue.’ John still clearly wasn’t pleased about the turn of events. ‘One against one; I should have been able to defend myself.’ He glared down at his one remaining hand. ‘Look at me,” he raged. ‘I’m helpless and useless, even against some commoner carrying a bit of twine in their pocket!”

Anders first reflex was to reach for him in comfort, but he kept his fingers around the mug instead. ‘It’s not your fault.’

John still blamed himself. ‘What if that assassin had gotten to you first? I wouldn’t have been able to do anything apart from watching you die!’

‘Well, he didn’t get to me first,’ Anders reminded him, unfazed.  

Frustration was eating John up alive. ‘Yes, but what about next time? I’m your husband! I’m supposed to be there to protect you!’

That comment unnerved Anders. ‘You think there’ll be a next time?’

John stayed quiet, but the answer was plain to see. Now that the Scarecrow knew they were both alive, they would try to get rid of them again.

Anders took one more sip and put the mug down. “I’m thinking… maybe I should leave Akland.” To occupy his hands, he took the pine branch, forgotten on the bed earlier. He plucked a pair of needles. Like all needles from forest pines, they were paired up, growing two by two on the branch: another reason why that tree was the symbol of marriage.

“And we’d go into hiding again?” John shook his head. “I don’t think it would sort anything out.  You barely just arrived here. You may not say it out loud, but I know you longed to be reunited with your family”

The little comfort Anders could find in that answer was that John considered the two of them as a ‘we’ again: parts of a complete item.

“If we stay here until after the wedding, the Duncans will arrest us,” Anders pointed out. Even from his own mouth, it sounded like a certitude.

“I know,” John said, somber. “But, sometimes, I think getting imprisoned is maybe the best way to be allowed back to Bastàl. No doubt Allan Duncan would want to bring us to his uncle as a trophy: to show him how much of a good lap dog he is.”

That sounded like the most suicidal plan Anders had heard in a while. “You seriously consider this as an option? Don’t you forget Lord Duncan wants us dead?! He failed once, he’s not going to allow himself to fail twice. If we go to Brastàl as prisoners, we’re never getting out of there again.”  Anders winced. Raising his voice made his head hurt. His appetite was gone and he put the tray aside. “You may think you deserve that doom, but I don’t…”

“I’m not considering it seriously. I’m just pondering out loud,” John assured him. “It is true, however, that our chances of rallying the other chieftains to our cause against the Duncans seem to be getting slimmer by the day.”  John shared the Johnsons’ opinion on that matter.  

“One thing’s clear to me,” Anders stated. “We won’t be able to accomplish anything behind bars… or dead.”

A guard called John from outside of the infirmary, and before he went to the door, John tucked his husband under the covers. “We have to keep faith, Anders. A solution will come. The spirits have not abandoned us yet.”

Anders watched him go with a sense of dread that brought back the nausea from earlier.

 

 

John came back a few minutes later, carrying Tiolam in the crook of his arm.

“I believe this wiggly thing belongs to you,” he joked. She squirmed and John had to put her on the bed before she’d slip away from him.

Anders had nearly forgotten about her. He was ashamed not to have inquired about her wellbeing any sooner. He moved aside to leave her some space and the vixen hastened to crawl under the covers with him, curling up in the patch of warmth he had left on the mattress. One of her rear legs was bandaged from the thigh down.   

“She hurt herself when she tried to defend you,” John explained. “The stable master examined her and said nothing was broken. It’s just a bad sprain. She’ll limp for a while.”

Tiolam stuck her head out from underneath the blanket and started panting in a very fox-like kind of smile. Anders buried his fingers in the white fur of her neck, giving her a good scratching.

“She’s been brave,” John remarked. “And she’s happy to be reunited with you.”

“Aye,” Anders simply said. _“Something you had a hard time appreciating yourself,”_  he added in mind. Bitterness still roused such thoughts. No matter the gentle gestures John bestowed upon him since his arrival in Aklànd, Anders was always waiting for things to go sour between them again: for the other shoe to drop.

Soon, the fox had her fill of attention and she retreated to the foot of the bed for a nap. In a similar manner, Anders wished John would go and leave him at peace. He rolled onto his side, his back to his husband, determined to enjoy some quiet rest. Later, Zeb came to examine his head and when Anders requested a book from the library, John left him to his reading.  

Anders spent the afternoon with his nose in the book, resuming the work begun at the library with Dawn the day before. He looked for a loophole in the North Hills laws that could delay or avoid a political arrest.

He was so engrossed in his task that he failed to notice the infirmary’s daily activity:  healers coming and going under the watch of the guards: fetching medicine bottles and other supplies, servants breastfeeding their babies or the stable boys and carpenters requesting bandages to treat minor cuts and blisters.

At some point, the constant movement of his eyes over the lines and pages induced a migraine and Anders had to give up on reading. He got bored and invented a game. He thew pine needles to the foot of his bed, trying to get the needles to lend on specific patches of the quilt. Tiolam joined in the game, her role in it consisting mostly in chewing on the quilt.

 

Anders didn’t see John again until later that evening, when three candles were everything that kept the darkness at bay in the corners of the infirmary.  

John wished him and Tiolam a good night, but Anders had lost his previous inclination for solitude. Now, he was reluctant to see John him leave for the night.

Everybody of the Johnson clan agreed Anders should sleep in the infirmary for at least a few days. He would avoid setting foot in his bedchamber again until the memories became less traumatizing. Besides, after sustaining such a head injury, he had to rest a lot and move as little as possible.

Despite having been offered the daybed in Tyrone’s apartments, John declared he had no problem sleeping in Anders’ bedchamber again and decided he was going to spend the night there. For many reasons, Anders despised the idea. One of which was that John sleeping upstairs meant he would be left on his own in the infirmary until the morning.

“I can ask Zeb to stay the night here with you if you want,” John offered. “He can bring a mattress and sleep by the fireplace.”  

Anders scrunched up his nose. “I don’t trust Zeb.” He knew he was acting like a spoilt brat, but could not help it.

“There are guards everywhere,” John pointed out. “No place is safer than here for you right now.”

“I don’t trust the guards either.”

‘Do you still trust anyone?’

Anders held his gaze in all seriousness. ‘Well, do you?’

With a deep sigh, John sat down on the chair by the bed. “What would you have me do, then?” His voice was still gravelly and raspy from the strangulation. Fatigue added to it. It would not come back to normal for at least two days, according to Zeb.

Anders knew exactly what he wanted, saying it out loud was a whole other deal. He still hoped his husband would guess without him having to spell it out.

John ran a hand over the bed quilt, tentative. He hesitated before asking: “Do you want me to stay with you?”

“Aye. You can sleep by my side,” Anders blurted out. He observed John’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

A fear close to panic kept scratching at the edge of his stomach since the memories of the murder attempt had started coming back. The last thing he wanted was to be left in the infirmary. He didn’t only fear for his own safety.  But somehow, appearing to be the coward was easier than admitting he was also scared for John and did not want to spend the night worried for him.

John hadn’t moved. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

Without another word, he stood and started to shed his clothes to join Anders in the bed _._

 _“I don’t want you to read too much into it,”_ Anders wanted to warn him. John could interpret his invitation to stay and share a bed as a sign Anders was ready to forget everything that happened between them since the beginning of the spring, which he wasn’t. And still, Anders stayed mute.  

His coat and kilt discarded, John stripped down to his shirt. The light garment fell just above the knees, keeping everything quite decent. In absence of a proper brush to do the work, he carded his fingers through his unruly curls to give them some semblance of order before he lifted the quilt to slip underneath.

Tiolam retreated even further at the foot of the bed, sensing she would soon lose her place beside Anders.

The bed was narrow compared to the one they used to share in Brastàl, but it was large enough for two grown men to lie side by side without brushing one another every time they moved.

It was slightly uncomfortable and awkward at first, as they both tried to settle and find a comfortable position without invading the other’s space. Tiolam, on the other hand, didn’t have this issue with trying to respect personal space and as she sprawled over John’s legs, forcing him to move his foot. Under the covers, his ankle grazed over Anders’ calf for a split second.

The fleeting contact sent a jolt through Anders’ whole body: a reminder of how touch-starved he was.

Instead of staring at the ceiling, waiting to fall asleep, he turned his head to detail John in the soft candlelight. His linen shirt was thin enough to let Anders catch a glimpse of darker areas underneath, where meadows of chest hair grew. His lips, Anders observed, had perfect proportions, like those of an art statue: the bow shape neatly drawn and the lower lip just a little pulpier than the upper one.

John kept the stump of his right arm underneath the quilt, but the left arm lay over it and Anders’ eyes traveled down the soft, black duvet dusting the forearm. He noted the prominent veins and also the muscles that still looked lean but strong despite the privations of the last moons.

If John noticed the scrutiny he was submitted to, he showed no sign of it. He was caught in a daydream. “You know, sometimes I think everything would be so much simpler if we were born as peasants.” He pulled the quilt higher on his chest to shield himself from the chill of the room.  

Anders rolled onto his side toward him. “I’m not sure I would want that. Manual labour doesn’t agree with my complexion.”

“Just imagine it,” John insisted, still enraptured by his reverie: “fewer dilemmas, less responsibilities and no unsolvable conundrums weighting on our shoulders. All we’d have to worry about would be our crops and livestock. We’d have a small, timber-framed cottage with a thatched roof: just big enough for the two of us.” He paused and turned his head to meet Anders’ eyes. Flickers of light like embers burnt low in his pupils. “I would make love to you and watch you fall asleep every night, safe in my arms, not tortured by the fear of what tomorrow could bring or how our decisions could lead to thousands people suffering.”

Anders’ breath hitched at the intensity he could read in his husband’s expression. The idea had some merit, mostly the part involving regular sex. Sometimes, Anders’ body reminded him the hard way that it hadn’t been truly touched and pleased for over four moons. “ _The very hard way_ …,” Anders added in mind.

And to have John so close again reminded him how good it had been to surrender to him: just how compatible their bodies were and how much John loved to bite his neck in the throes of passion, as if possessing his lover with everything he had just wasn’t enough to satiate him. And Anders remembered how badly he yearned for the ache of John’s teeth in his flesh. Being the cause of the deep, insatiable hunger of a man such as John had given Anders a sense of fulfilment he had rarely gotten anywhere else before. He missed that as well: being the sole reason for his husband’s loss of control; for his moans and sweet release.

He could touch John right now if he wanted. He only had to reach under the sheets and he would meet the linen of his shirt. That shirt could be easily lifted to gain access to the skin of jutting hip bones, a flat stomach, strong legs… His mouth watered at the thought, but he had to swallow down his desire. He would not dare. There was still too much uncertainty, restrain and unsaid truths between them. Besides, with John missing an arm, nothing would ever be the same.

“Us as peaceful yeomen: it’s just a nice fantasy…,” John murmured, making the idyllic image of their little cottage burst like a soap bubble lading in briars. “I wanted a good life for us both,” he confessed, shifting onto his back again. He paused and rubbed his forehead with the inside of his wrist, the way he did every time guilt seized him. “What I wanted for you: all the dreams and plans for our future, it’s all crumbled to dust now. I can’t fight to protect you anymore, to protect my country or even myself, as it turns out.”

“There is one good thing with plans:  they can be changed,” Anders said with a wisdom he rarely showed.  

John uttered a vague humming sound of approbation, but Anders doubted his words had any effect on his husband’s angst. Having been told he’d be a warrior and a ruler from the youngest age, now that this was torn away from him, John had to mourn, not only his lost dreams, but also the death of the man he thought he was set to become. He experienced the loss of purpose and identity. Looking everywhere in hope to find himself again: it had to be an exhausting quest.

The only thing, perhaps, that could make it better was if circumstances allowed John to reunite with his people of Brastàl, if he regained his estate and found a way to rid the country of the invaders. The chances these planets would align for him anytime soon seemed pretty slim at the moment.

It was late already, so the two men were both astonished when their conversation was interrupted by one of the guards knocking in the door. “There is a lady here wishing to speak with you, sirs,” he announced.

Anders snorted. “At this hour? Can she come back tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry. She was adamant this conversation had to take place at once.”

John, on the other hand, was more intrigued than annoyed. “Who is it?”

“Lady Ingrid Duncan.”

The surname alone was enough to send a bad shiver down Anders’ spine.

“Have you searched her?”

“Yes, and we found no weapon on her,” the guard confirmed. “We even confiscated her belt, purse and the ribbons in her hair.” In other words, they had made sure she did not carry anything with straps or that could otherwise be used to strangle someone.

The spouses exchanged a look and Anders nodded to signify his consent, despite the fact he would much rather sleep.

“Give us a few minutes to get decent and you can send her in,” John instructed, already reaching for his kilt on the floor.

“Yes, sir.”

Ingrid was a peculiar lady. Nobody could have guess, just by looking at her, that she was part of the nobility, not by the clothes she was wearing, anyway. Whilst the clanswomen usually wore elegant but sober gowns, hers was a patchwork of mismatched colors. The little, ornamental bells at the tip of her braided hair chimed when she entered the room.

No matter how cheery her clothes could appear, her face showed a completely different range of emotions: embarrassment, trepidation, even fear, when she approached them, and particularly when she caught a glimpse of the wound on John’s neck.  

Ingrid curtseyed before them, something neither John nor Anders expected. She threw a wary look over her shoulder at the guard still standing by the door.  “I’ll be quick. My son doesn’t know I’m here and must never learn I spoke to you.”

“We won’t tell,” John assured her. He gestured for the guard to leave.  

The soldier gone, Ingrid’s shoulders fell, and with it, some of the tension in the room. Yet, she was nervously fidgeting with the side of her skirt. When John pulled a chair for her, she declined. “No thanks. I can’t stay for long.”

Tiolam was still asleep at the foot of the bed, and Anders took it as a sign the visitor had no hostile intention. He still was in a hurry to get her to speak and then leave. “What do you want?”

Ingrid wrung her hands. “I’m here … to inquire after your wellbeing of course… and also because you have to know that my clan is innocent. They don’t have anything to do with the assassination attempt carried against you.”

Anders burst out in snide laughter. “I’ve heard a couple good jokes in my time, but this is the best one to date! ”

“This is the truth, sir,” Ingrid insisted. “I’ve been here with the members of my clan every second since we arrived in Aklànd: none of us could have hired that person to kill you. My son would never insult his host, Lord Tyrone, in such a despicable way. ”

The absurdity of that claim had Anders laughing some more. Calling a murder an ‘insult to a host’ was the understatement of the century.

John took a different course of action and gave Ingrid a grave and serious look. “Maybe none of them hired that precise man to sneak into the castle and put a rope around my neck, but your brother, Lord Duncan, has encouraged that insane witch hunt and some rumors say he even financed the Scarecrow.”

“Lord Duncan _is_ the Scarecrow,” Anders corrected.

Ingrid pulled her multicolor shawl around her shoulders like a turtle retreating in its shell. “My brother chose a very questionable course of action since he took the throne in Brastàl-”

“Since he stole it, you mean,” Anders cut her off, relentless.

John lifted his hand to silence him. “Please, let the lady speak.”

Anders shut his mouth. Laughing had made his headache worse and he regretted it now.

Ingrid’s eyes traveled from one man to the other. “My brother was wrong to do what he did. I don’t agree with the fact he gave his support to a group like the Scarecrow that are using their own fear as a justification to terrorize others, but since then, he lost control over them. They don’t have a leader. These are just small groups of people adhering to the idea that everything bad happening in the North Hills is due to some hidden sorcerers and they are carrying actions under no one’s authority but their own.”

“Disorganized and unpredictable,” John reflected.

“Exactly.”  

John looked at Anders, visibly worried, as if his stare alone was powerful enough to put a protective spell over him.  “I can’t speak for my husband,” John told Ingrid, “but I, for one, believe you. Seeing how they behave, it makes sense that they don’t answer to any chief.”

“Thank you,” she breathed and motioned to leave, but John held her back.

“Madam, I salute your courage for coming to us despite the hostile stance your clan took against mine, but since I doubt we will ever be able to speak so freely again, I have questions and my soul is agonizing without answers.” He moved toward her like a man ready to fall on his knees and beg.

She hesitated, but nobody could deny anything to John Mitchell’s imploring eyes. “I’m listening.”

“My mother… have you seen her? How is she?”

Anders dreaded the answer. His throat tightened. No sorcerer powers were needed to see how much John suffered from his mother’s absence and the incertitude surrounding her fate.

“Yes, I’ve seen Lady Mitchell,” Ingrid confirmed. “I tried to keep her company every time I could. She is very lonely, I’m afraid.” Sadness passed across her face. “She was sick this winter, but doesn’t seem to be getting any worse and she’s out of bed. My brother confined her to a small room in the servants’ quarter. She wears the violet mourning dress since the day she heard of your capture. She thinks her clan completely decimated. I hope for the news of your whereabouts to lift her spirits.”

John quivered, putting on a brave face.

Seeing his distress, Ingrid put her hand on his arm. “Despite her hardship, she’s a very brave woman,” she tried to comfort him, “graceful with everybody she interacts with.”

Under the light of the candles unshed tears shimmered at the corner of John’s eyes. “She truly is a brave soul.”

“If I could, I would offer to pass a message on to her, but it would be too dangerous. My brother doesn’t trust anybody, not even me, and giving the fact I’m here with you right now, I guess he has some good reasons not to.” She let go of John’s arm.

“What about Mikkel?”Anders asked, afraid she would leave before he’d get news of his own.

“Officially, he acts as Robert’s advisor, but, knowing my brother, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had threatened yours to get him to do his bidding.”

John too hastened to question her again: “I have a friend. He was the chief of my guard: his name is George Sands. Do you know what happened to him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” she regretted. “When Robert took control of Brastàl, the guards who tried to resist were thrown into the castle’s jail. Your friend is most probably amongst them.”

“Are they fed? Are they treated decently? Are they allowed to have visitors? He has a fiancée: her name is Nina.” John’s avidity for answers was painful to witness.

“I make sure they get regular meals, but my power is limited and… you know… it’s still a jail and for now it’s crowded. It’s been moons since those poor souls saw the light of day… let alone their family.”

It was John’s turn to grab her hand and ask for a favor. “If you ever see George… could you… could you please tell him he won’t be left there to rot? I will find a way to … I’ll get him free even if it’s the last thing I do.”  

She nodded. Voices and noises coming from outside the infirmary awoke her nervousness and she pulled her hand out of John’s supplicating grip. “I have to go.”

“What about my mother’s handmaiden, Annie,” John insisted as she headed for the door, chasing her, “the one who’s with child.”

“I don’t know where she is. I’m sorry,” Ingrid apologized. “I truly have to leave. I want you to remember that despite what my brother did, I’m sympathetic to your cause. I’m not sure how or even if I can help you in any way, but I’ll be sure to let your mother know you’re fine.”

“Thank you…,” John surrendered. Powerless, he watched her leave, and from the tension in his back and the way his eyes had darkened, Anders suspected he could be in trouble.

Once she was gone, John removed his kilt in silence, pensive and distant. Anders watched him do, but abstained to speak until John was back under the quilt. It felt like being in bed with a slab of stone.

Anders had his defensive wall up already, positive that John would take this opportunity to blame him again for the loss of Brastàl to Lord Duncan and the consequences on his mother and his friends.  “You think it’s all my fault, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” John uttered, eyes on the ceiling and the tightness of his voice betraying the turmoil inside him.

“Don’t pretend you’re not blaming me. I know you are,” Anders attacked before being attacked. “You made that very clear when we were at the Gull’s Nest.”

John kept his composure. “I can see you’re still upset about it…”  

The tone he interpreted as slightly patronizing, set Anders ablaze. “Still? Of course I’m still upset! You’re saying that as if I should have gotten over it already ; as if I should have forgotten the way you shut me out and that time when you told me I was no longer worthy of being part of your clan!”

Eyes closed, John took a deep breath. “If you still think I meant the things I said back then, despite all my sincere apologies, why did you want me here tonight, then?”

“If I want you here tonight, it’s because I’m scared,” Anders raged. “If being frightened after my husband nearly got murdered in front of my very eyes makes me a coward, then yes, you were right: I am a coward!”

Taking him off guard, John shifted position on the bed and ended up so close they were nearly nose to nose. “Anders, may I touch you?”

Too startled by the question, and the gentleness of the tone in which it had been said, Anders gave an almost imperceptible nod.

John placed his hand on Anders’ scruffy cheek. “Listen, I understand you’re scared. And believe me, you’re not alone.”

Bewildered and transfixed, Anders could only listen.

“My conscience is sore, for I treated you ill,” John went on. “I wish I could swallow back the unfair words I told you, but it’s too late, and all I can do now is tell you that no matter how angry and devastated I was back at the Gull’s Nest, my feelings for you never disappeared. Our current situation is atrocious in every way possible, but I’m done blaming you. We should hurt together, not use this pain as a weapon against one another like we’ve done so far.”

Anders covered John’s hand with his and peeled the fingers away from his face. “Is it strange of me to feel I could trust you with my life, but that my heart isn’t safe around you?”

John brought his arm to his chest. “No. I think that makes you very human.” For a moment he did not move, staying close to his spouse on the mattress.

The moment came to an end abruptly and John was back behind the invisible frontier delimiting their respective sides of the bed. Minutes later, he was already asleep.

 

 

***

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to even leave this room,” John said. He did his best not to appear too scolding.

Even if his skull was still full of fog, Anders persisted in his current task and spread his kilt on the floor to pleat it. “It’s Ty’s second trial. It’s not like I’m allowed to miss it.”

John took a disapproving posture, positioning himself between his husband and the door to block any eventual exit route. “In regard of the recent events, I’m positive everybody would understand your absence... especially Tyrone.”

With an annoyed gesture, Anders dismissed the argument. “You’ve nearly been strangled, your voice isn’t completely back yet and you’re still going to the trial, aren’t you?”

John took his cloak and pin from a nearby chair.“I don’t have a head injury,” he remarked, undeterred by his spouse’s stubborn attitude. He tried to fasten his cloak with a single hand, but the fabric kept on slipping away and the pin refused to collaborate.

“Stop acting like I’m made of glass.” It took Anders twice the time to pleat his kilt than it normally would, and when John pointed it out, he snarled in reply.

It was five in the morning already. If John did not leave now, he would be late for the trial.  Fighting with Anders was going to delay him even more. It pushed him to surrender. “Fine, since you insist on coming, even against the healers’ advice, I won’t manhandle you back to your bed like I probably should, but there is no way I’m letting you ride a horse on your own.”

Anders was adjusting his belt around his hips, but stopped and momentarily forgot what he was doing “What?”

“You heard me. Zeb said that if you fell and hit your head again, it might cause permanent damage. You’re going to ride on my saddle or else I’m asking the guards to lock you up in here for your own good.” Anders opened his mouth to protest, but John didn’t leave him the time: “This is an order from your lord and it’s not negotiable.” He put his cloak pin in Anders’ hand rather forcefully. “Can you please help me with that damn thing?”

Anders took the pin, fastened John’s cloak and watched him stomp off.  

***

A few minutes later, they met in the stables where a servant had already prepared John’s horse for the ride down to the port.

Outside, John mounted in a hurry, offered his arm to his husband and helped him climb on the saddle in front of him. Anders took the reins to guide the horse outside the courtyard, followed by three guards, also on horseback.

The clansmen and ladies had already reached the quays. They were the last ones to leave the castle.

The sun rose behind the hills. The shadows receded in the bay as light gained some territory on the gray surface of the ocean. It was a windy, chilly morning. John’s breath on the back of Anders’ neck left a layer of moisture that made him shiver.

Without warning, John braced himself around Anders’ midsection to keep them both steady as the horse trod on the uneven cobblestones of the Great Alley. The sudden clasp kicked the air out of Anders’ lungs for a split second, but he found his breath again when the horse slowed down at the entrance of the marketplace.

As anticipated, they were the last to arrive at the port. This meant they had no chance to remain unnoticed. The ruling families had all dismounted already and entrusted their horses to servants sent from the castle for that very purpose. The noble folks waited by the quays and all turned their heads to gauge the newcomers. Most of the looks aimed at John and Anders were dirty enough to fit on a pig pen’s floor, and the ones who weren’t hostile ranged from wary to questioning.

“Well, this isn’t humiliating to me at all,” Anders hissed with sarcasm.

“It’s not the first time they see you ride with me,” John reminded his spouse, letting go of him. “I’ve brought you back to Brastàl the same way after our second trial.”

Anders pulled on the reins and slipped down the saddle to the ground. “It was humiliating as well the first time.”

Axl appeared from the crowd and helped them find a servant to get their horse and also rid the guards from theirs.

“Why the port? Why did we have to come here?,” Anders asked his brother.

Instead of Axl, it was John who provided an explanation: “The second spirit who’s supposed to test their union is Vàt. Since the spirit of ocean is involved, I guess we’ll have to take a ship to somewhere.”

Axl nodded. “I don’t know all the details, but yes, we’re supposed to get onboard soon. Another ship already came earlier to pick Ty up, along with Lord Blackwood and his two sons.”  And as he said this, sailors called the noble families to approach four ships moored to the quays.

Throwing a look around, Anders noted his cousin’s absence. “Where’s Olaf?”

“He went with the party accompanying Dawn to Dunfar cliffs,” Axl answered as they crossed the plank bridge to board their ship.

As soon as they stepped on the deck, John’s face got a few shades paler. He had given up on being friends with the ocean and sailing remained his nemesis. Given how seasick he had been during their travel from Rosecliff, Anders could hardly blame him.  

Anders too, who always felt confident on a ship’s deck before, had to admit there was a tingle of apprehension at the bottom of his stomach when the sailors unmoored.   

The four ships left the port in a close formation and the first waves coming from the high sea hit the keels.

“They all think we’re lepers,” John said, pointing starboard at the other ships. They were full of people while theirs had only had Anders, Axl, John and the guards onboard, along with the ship’s crew. The clansmen and ladies preferred stacking themselves up like salted herrings in barrels, overcrowding another deck, instead of taking the risk of sailing with the Mitchells.

“I’m not exactly surprised,” Anders said in a half-frustrated, half-resigned sigh. ”With our ill-luck lately, perhaps it’s wise of them to stay away. It wouldn’t be the first ship we wreck…”

***

 

Dunfar had the reputation of having the highest and most dangerous cliffs north to the Quigley river. The seventy meters rock face was made of a highly friable chalk. It could crumble without warning under the feet of humans or cattle walking too close to the edge. According to some legends, the human deaths could in fact be attributed to the selkies, pulling the grass like a carpet from under the boots of young shepherds, to bring them into their salt and water kingdom.

About a hundred yards from the cliffs, the fifth ship joined the fleet coming from Aklànd’s port. That fifth ship was the one on which Ty had sailed away earlier, though Anders could not see his brother on the deck, or anywhere else around.

The ships moored in front of a large and deep cave, like a gaping wound between the chalk ribs of the cliff. Tide was rising and the cave was already half-filled with water. No doubt, once the sea at the highest point of the tide, the cave would disappear completely underneath the waves.

Anders turned to Axl. “Now what?”

“I don’t know.”  Axl squinted against the sunlight to scout the surroundings.

“By the spirits… they can’t be serious,” John muttered, a hand covering his mouth. He was looking up, to the sky, Anders thought, until he laid his eyes on the edge of the cliff as well and noticed something that looked like a person climbing down the cliff at the end of a rope. Except, nobody would ever be stupid enough to risk a stunt like this.

The trials council must have gone completely insane to have Ty climb down those towering, treacherous cliffs. But the silhouette struggling to grasp the rope and keep its footing was too short and slender to be Ty’s. As the climber managed to come down another ten meters or so, chalk crumbling in their wake and tumbling down into the sea, Anders’ heart jumped in his throat. Dawn held on as best as she could, and he could only imagine the terror she experienced at that very moment.

Her path down the cliff would ultimately bring her just above the cave, if she even made it there. By now, everybody standing on the ship decks had figured out the goal of the trial.

Ty was somewhere at the bottom of that cave, probably tied up to something, and Dawn had to go there and free her fiancé before the tide would drown him.

John, Anders and Axl followed her slow, painstaking progress. By now, Axl had bitten his nails to the point of making his fingers bleed.

Anders watched the rope, hoping it would not fray anywhere. If it occurred, all he’d be able to do is watch Dawn taking a fatal plunge.

Total helplessness was the worst feeling of all.

By sheer miracle, Dawn managed to reach a ledge above the cave to take some rest. She threw a look over her shoulder now and then, at the waves crashing underneath, but she tried to stay as close as possible to the rock face. Even the most slightly miscalculated movement could kill her. Anders wasn’t quite able to see her expression, but she had to be white as a sheet. He certainly would be if he was in her boots.

She didn’t have the luxury to give rest for her strained muscles much longer. The tide wouldn’t wait for her, and already, water had closed up a good portion of the cave’s entrance.

All Anders could hope for was that Ty could keep his head close to the ceiling and above water.

A nasty tingle in his hands and feet and cold sweat on the back of his neck forced Anders to grip the ship’s mizzen mast. This spectacle reminded him too much of being trapped in a cage slowly sinking into the Quigley river. That day, he had had to put his life in the hands of the man he was going to marry a few days later, just like Ty had to put all his faith in Dawn’s courage and stamina.

Anders glanced at John and knew the pallor of his cheek under the dark stubble wasn’t only due to his fear for Ty and Dawn, but also to these memories they had in common. Perhaps these shared moments of fear would be the thing keeping them together in the end.

Dawn’s progress still stalled on that ledge. She seemed unable to go any further. The sun gleamed on the sweat and tears that streamed down her face.

“Come on…. Come on,” Axl encouraged her under his breath.

The more she’d wait, the more strength she’d lose. Being exposed to the sun for so long would not help. And Ty was in the cold water. Exposure could weaken him as well.

She threw another look down at the rising tide and, from desperation, found a new resolve.

Pieces of chalk rolled from around her feet and plummeted from the ledge, but she began the next phase of her descent toward the cave.

Dawn climbed down until she hung into the void, at the entrance of the cave. She let herself slip a few more meters toward the sea and when only five separated her from the surface, she let go of the rope and fell into the water.

John ran to ship’s bow. The Johnson brothers followed him. They were all glad to see Dawn resurface, but they lost sight of her as soon as she swam into the cave.

Then, the terrible wait began.

Anders didn’t dare look at his youngest brother or his husband, because their own worry would make his tenfold.  He stared at the entrance of the cave, like his eyes could somehow pierce the darkness and let him know that Ty and Dawn were still alive in there.

To make the matter worse, the wind was peaking up. The ocean, foaming at the mouth, threw a volley of waves at the cliffs, desperate to end the battle. The spirit of the ocean was determined to make it difficult for the couple under trial.

“They should be out by now.” Anders’ fingers grasped the gunwale to the point of pain. He was leaning forward at the bow, aching to see any sign of someone swimming out of the cave. Not much of the entrance remained visible above the water level.

“They will come out,” John said, oddly calm. “You have to give them time.”

“There isn’t any time left.” Anders unbuttoned his coat. “If they haven’t resurfaced in five minutes, I’m going in.” He tossed the piece of clothing on top of a barrel and started taking his boots off.

John took the discarded coat and threw it back at his husband. “You can’t help them. It’s against the rules. It’s their trial, not yours.”

Anders threw the coat into John’s face for good measure. “I don’t care about that. I’m not going to let them die in there.”

Turning to his brother-in-law for help, John hailed Axl. “Help me here, will you?” But Axl had turned into a stone statue.

John’s persuasion tactic had no effect on Anders, so he dropped the coat on the deck. Anders had removed his boots and also his waistcoat.

The part of the cave that was still showing above the waves had now about the length of an arm.

“That’s it. I’m going,” Anders decided, confident in his skill as a swimmer. And if he could at least save one person and not two, it would at least be that. Perhaps it was best if they died together in that cave, but Anders had no care for the sacred meaning of the trials.

He spotted on the deck a wood plank that could help him float, but as he aimed to grab it, an arm came locking around his neck from behind. He struggled, but his head was caught, proving that a surprising amount of strength remained in John’s body.

“Let go of me!!!”

“No.”

“It’s my brother, for fuck’s sake! And you’re choking me!”

“You’re cursing, so you’re still breathing.”

“I know how to swim! I can get to them,” Anders sustained, in fury. “Let go of me, you dirty bastard!”

“You can insult me all you want,” John stated, his grip on Anders just as firm, “you can kick and scream, but I’m not letting you jump into the water with a head injury!”  

“I’m going, then,” said a voice behind them. Unbeknownst to them, Axl had started undressing as well.  

“Axl, no!”

But before John could make a move to hold him back, Axl had already jumped across the gunwale.

Water splashed on the deck.

John freed Anders and they both rushed to starboard, where Axl had disappeared.

Not wasting a second, John leant over the side of the ship and was able to grab his young brother-in-law by the back of his shirt. “Help me, Anders,” he ordered.

Forgetting for a moment his intention to jump himself, Anders added his strength to John’s hold on Axl. He was not going to lose another brother today. A guard and one of the sailors came to the rescue.

The cold water had put Axl in a sort of stupor and he barely resisted. He rolled on the ship’s deck when the four men managed to pull him onboard, out of breath, his shirt sticking to his body.

Anders’ relief was short-lived. Ty was still in the cave, facing imminent death.

He ran to the bow again. Perhaps if the sailors could stir the ship closer to the entrance…. but with the force of the wind, they risked crashing into the cliffs.

Suddenly, in the gap between waves, he spotted two heads and two waving pairs of arms.

“Look!!!” Anders cried out. “They’re there! They’re alive! They made it!” He turned around to see John fall to his knees in relief.

“Praised be the spirits…I’m definitely not strong enough to handle more than one Johnson at a time,” he admitted.  

Watching the drama unfold from the other ships, the clans broke in cheers when they understood this trial would have a happy outcome in the end.

The sailors directed the ship toward the couple, at a safe distance from the cliffs, as Ty and Dawn did their best to fight against the waves and swim toward them.

As soon as they came within reach, they were swiftly pulled onboard. None of them had any visible injury.

John dragged Ty to the port side of the deck and wrapped him in his cloak while Anders and Axl brought Dawn to the stern where they helped her sit down. Her lips were blue and her teeth clattered. Regardless, she smiled when Axl gave his kilt in lieu of a blanket. Her shaky fingers took with gratitude the flask of whiskey Anders provided.

“I truly thought Vàt had claimed you both for good,” Anders admitted, transparent in his relief.

“We are victorious and alive to see the next trial,” Dawn replied. “It’s all that counts for now.” She had no intention of giving more details of her ordeal. What happened in that cave would stay between Ty and her forever. Anders had to respect it.

He reached to take the flask back, but Dawn kept holding on to it. She took another gulp before she revealed, quiet enough so only Anders and Axl could hear: “I have a solution to keep the Duncans from arresting you and John. It came to me just before I climbed down the cliff.” She drank from the flask again. “Actually, it’s your cousin Olaf who gave me the idea. He never realized he was holding the answer to your prayers all along.”

“Knowing Olaf, it’s not exactly surprising,” Axl commented.

“What is that solution?,” At this point Anders was ready to accept almost anything that would keep him out of Lord Duncan’s claws.  

“As we rode to the cliffs, your cousin mentioned in passing that the druid of Aklànd temple was still looking for a couple to perform the ritual of the _Aonadh nan spioradan_.”

Anders frowned. It rang a bell, but he couldn’t tell what the Gaelic word referred to.

Dawn read the confusion on his face and didn’t hide her surprise. “You don’t know what it is?”  

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “I’ve never been much of a temple-going kind of guy.”

“You’re more of a brothel-going kind of guy,” Axl rectified.

“True. And yet, nobody ever thanked me for encouraging the local economy.”   

“I already knew you were not much of a believer,” Dawn pointed out, consenting to give Anders his beloved flask back. “And yet, of all the celebrations of our religious calendar, I thought this one would actually pique your interest.”

“Why? What is it about?” His life was in the balance and Anders had no time for riddles.

“Sex. It’s about sex,” Axl gave away.  

Anders frowned. “I’m not following.”

“ _Aonadh nan spioradan_ is the celebration taking place during the night between the last day of the week of Riga and the first of Kcurck,” Dawn explained. “It’s the carnal meeting between the two spirits:  union and fertility. Each year, a chosen couple re-enact that meeting by having intercourse in the local temple. It’s meant to ensure fertility in the spiritual world as well as in the physical one for the year to come. The couple has to be married for less than a year and to have observed a period of abstinence of at least two moons prior to the ritual.” Confronted with Anders’ clueless, she blinked twice. “I’m astonished you didn’t know about that tradition.”

“Like I said,” Anders repeated. “I never really paid attention to what was going on at the temple.”  

The unpleasant cold from his wet shirt made Axl a bit more vindictive than usual. “In his defense, he was probably too drunk to notice anything going on around him.”

“Will you shut up?” Anders snapped back. He then turned to Dawn again with growing irritation. He wanted solutions: real ones.  “I’m not sure I’m following, Dawn. What is your plan exactly? I don’t see how you and Ty fornicating in front of a bunch of pervert priests will help John and I stay out of jail!”

“I don’t think Dawn was suggesting Ty and she should be the couple taking part to the ritual,” Axl pointed out.  

“Oh.” Anders’ eyes went round with realization and his heartbeat picked up speed. He threw a look at John from across the deck. His spouse was sitting with Ty and speaking to him in a quiet voice. The wind brushed strands of hair across the serious lines on his forehead. Salt water had straightened his dark hair and droplets clung to his eyelashes.

“The chosen couple is untouchable until the ritual has been performed,” Dawn added. “It would buy us more time to find you a permanent way out of that situation.”

“She’s right,” Axl agreed. “Besides, you’d be perfect for the ritual. From what I understood, you and John hadn’t got frisky for at least a few moons, haven’t you?”

Anders was usually the first to flaunt his sex life for anybody to hear, but that conversation about the lack of it thereof was making him uncomfortable and self-conscious. He coughed, in hope to get out of it promptly. “I’m going to have to think about it… and speak to my husband.  Until then, I count on your discretion.”

“You have my word,” Dawn assured him, “but you must decide soon, because if the druid finds another couple-”

“I know,” Anders interrupted, not wanting to add any more pressure upon himself.

His gaze went starboard again. John was helping Ty back on his feet. What were the thoughts going through his head in that instant? Anders wondered. What would John think of Dawn’s plan and the ritual? Anders had a hard time deciphering his own mind and emotions right now, let alone his husband’s.

Somehow the idea of having to give himself to John made him as terrified as it did on their wedding night. Back then, he was bound by the duty of letting John have him in order to save his clan’s honor and fortune. Now he had to do it again: to survive. The reluctance, though, was of a different nature.

After all those moons of mistrust, incomprehension, conflict and doubts, the ritual would push them into bed together, not giving them the time they needed to come back toward one another at their own pace.

With anybody else, Anders would have welcomed the prospect of debauchery with thrill, but the circumstances made him dread a night that could spoil the little progress they made toward reconciliation.

Unsuspecting, John walked up to him, holding out his right arm. “Would you mind rolling up my sleeve, please?”

Without a word, Anders got to the task, uncovering the offered forearm. John was wearing the necklace with the symbol of Braig as a bracelet and it reminded Anders of the favor he owed his spouse after their bet. He gulped. The favor was another sword hanging over his head.

John frowned. “What’s going on?” In absence of an immediate answer, he touched Anders’ chin, prompting him to lift his head and let their eyes meet.

Anders could have lied and delayed having to spill it out, but he had learnt his lesson. “Dawn has found a potential, short-term solution to keep us out of the law’s reach.”

“She has?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you once we’re back in the castle and alone.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to my ever-loyal and ever-beloved beta reader Katyushha. :) 
> 
> As usual, your feedback, dear readers, is my ultimate fuel.


	11. A Truce of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you want me?” This is a hard thing to ask when you’re afraid the truth is not what you wish to hear.

  
Rain was dripping from the edge of the roof. A droplet hit the tip of Anders’ boot, leaving a daisy-shaped mark on the dusty leather. Small water streams were chasing one another down the back alley of the alehouse, in the cracks between the cobblestones. The sounds of voices and the music of the tin whistle seeped through from underneath the door, along with the smell of food and the fragrance of beer fresh from the barrel.

Sheltered from the downpour under the back porch, Anders didn’t feel like taking part in the merrymaking any longer. After Ty and Dawn’s trial at the cliffs, someone suggested a detour by an alehouse close to Aklànd’s port to celebrate. What should have been a quick pint before getting back to the castle turned into a long feast that lasted throughout the day far into the night.  

Inside, a guard was keeping an eye on Anders through the kitchen window. Anders pretended the guard wasn’t there. Being under watch constantly was starting to seriously get on his nerves, though he knew now how important such protection was.

John appeared from around the corner, his clothes drenched in rain. He was coming back from the stables where he’d made sure his horse had been fed. He stopped under the porch and shook the water off his hair like a wet dog running out of a pond and wrung out his kilt in hope to feel at least a little dryer.

Anders brushed a droplet off his brow with his sleeve. “Your uncle, my brother and everybody else is still inside.”

“I know. You’re here, though,” John said.  

They exchanged a look. Anders wasn’t sure if that meant John preferred his company in the cold and the rain to anybody else’s in the warmth and cheer of the alehouse. He refrained from feeling flattered. It would keep him from any future disappointment.

“You still haven’t told me what Dawn’s plan was,” John pointed out. “I know we’re not back to the castle yet, but at least we’re alone.”

Instead of answering, Anders asked another question. “What happened to the man who attacked us? Where is he now?” The subject had been on his mind since they moored back at the port after the trial.

“He’s dead,” John revealed, unwilling to mince his words. “He was in such a fury the guards had to kill him when they got into our bedchamber. They’re keeping the body and trying to identify him… or waiting for his family to claim it.”

Anders nodded. “It’s a shame they did not keep him alive to interrogate him.” He doubted it would have been useful, though. The man was ready to die for his cause. Even under torture, he would not have caved.

That was the end of Anders’ inquiry. At least the man could not harm them anymore. But Anders wasn’t naïve enough to think the threat eradicated. The monster that wanted them dead had multiple heads and only one of them had been severed. It would surely come back: angrier than ever.

They remained silent, just listening to the rain. Anders mentally cursed his own silence. Old habits die hard and once again, he was trying to delay the moment he’d have to open up to his husband: tell him about Dawn’s suggestion and all it entailed. Luckily, John’s new policy was not to press him.

“Are you planning on going back inside?” John simply asked.

“Hm,” Anders grumbled. To be perfectly honest, he had no intention of doing so, but the idea of riding back to the castle wasn’t one that tempted him either.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I don’t know…”

John chuckled. His laugh, albeit quiet, ricocheted off the wet walls of the alley. “Let’s return to the castle, then, shall we?”

“We could go to the temple instead.”

John froze in surprise. “The temple?”  Coming from Anders, this was a rather unusual request. “Are you sure?”

Anders pulled the plaid of his kilt over his head, to provide himself with a makeshift hood against the downpour. “Yes, I am sure.”

After a moment of hesitation, John saw that his husband was serious. By a knock on the kitchen window, he informed the guards that they were ready to move.

Since the temple was only a few blocks away, the couple decided to leave the horse at the alehouse and walk the distance.

The night was dark and the city poorly lit, since most of the oil lamps in the streets had succumbed to the humid air already.

They walked along the main streets and pathways, avoiding what Anders considered to be cutthroat alleys. He used to feel safe in Aklànd and would frequent the shadier neighborhoods and the seediest establishments without a care in the world. Times had changed. Despite the four guards protecting them, Anders caught himself jumping every time a dog barked in the shadows of a porch.

John was following closely. Alert and attentive to their surroundings as well.

“We’ve arrived,” Anders finally told his husband, when part of the facade of the temple emerged through the night. All they could see right now was a stone wall, with water dripping from the moss that clung to it, but Anders knew the temple to be an impressive building: even bigger than Brastàl’s central temple, for it sheltered two religious communities: one of the male priests and one of the priestesses.

They followed the wall and found the south door. At this hour, it was closed and locked.

Again, John hesitated. “I have nothing against late-night prayers, but are you sure this is truly where you want to be right now?”

“Yes,” Anders said, and before he’d lose his nerve, he pulled the rope hanging by the door to ring the bell inside. He could tell, even without looking at him, that his husband was frowning.

“What is it that you’re not telling me, Anders?”

Sometimes, Anders wished John was stupid, or, at least, that he wouldn’t read him so easily. He swallowed down and racked his brain for an appropriate answer. None came, so he chose the naked truth: “ _Adhoan nan spirodan_ : the fertility ritual. It was Dawn’s idea.”

“The… tha…what?” As expected, it took John off guard… to say the least.

“Dawn. She’s the one who thought it would buy us some time,” Anders said, naming Dawn again, so he would rid himself of any responsibility in case his spouse reacted badly.

Inside, the priest on duty was taking his bloody time to answer the door. Anders tapped the heels of his boots together, impatient.

“Is this some kind of ambush?” John’s temper was firing already, judging by how his voice, still harsh from strangulation, got a tad lower and darker. With his face partially hidden under his hood and his wet curls sticking out, he looked savage and unpredictable.

“No,” Anders said, firm and determined to avoid any escalation. “I never intended to ambush you in any way. I’m just not feeling safe returning to the castle, and I thought that since we’d have to discuss the possibility of taking part in the ritual at some point, none would be better to answer our questions than the druid who runs this place.”

Anders wasn’t convinced yet he would go forward with the ritual. He needed to know more before agreeing, and somehow, discussing it with a third party seemed less daunting than having to weight the options with John one on one.

His husband’s words seemed to put John at ease, at least momentarily. He went back from angry to interrogative and suspicious. “You know we’re speaking about a sexual ceremony here, right? That’s what _Aonadh nan spioradan_ is about…”  

“I know.”

They were starting to freeze in the cold rain. Anders rang the bell again, with more vigor this time.

“It has many implications,” John went on, “both personal and political.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, you believe this is the sole solution to our problems?”

“I don’t. But I don’t want to die either. So maybe it’s worth at least giving it some thought.” His eyes sought the expression on his lord’s face. “Don’t you think?”

John lowered his head. “I don’t know, Anders. No offense to Lady Dawn, but I don’t think this is a good idea at all…”

Unexpectedly, Anders’ heart sank. He hadn’t seen this coming. Somehow, he thought he’d be the one needing convincing.

Since his arrival in Aklànd, John had shown his will to gain Anders’ trust and affection. Anders even went as far as anticipating that John would use the favor from the bet as a way to push him to accept the ritual, so they would be in a position to find some sort of intimacy again. But none of the scenarios he had played in his head involved John refusing the idea altogether. In a twisted way, Anders felt his husband’s answer as a kind of rejection, and it stung. Was John not attracted to him at all anymore? Was the idea of sex with him so unattractive he preferred ending up in prison than having to touch him?

Anders was considering giving up on visiting the temple tonight, when, finally, the door opened to reveal the tired and slightly-annoyed face of a young man in a green robe. His expression changed when he realized who was on the doorstep. The presence of the guards also added to the intimidation factor, and the poor priest stuttered a question: “wh-what can I d-do for you, your lordship?”

Before John could open his mouth, Anders took the reins of the situation. “We’d like to speak to your boss.”

The young man looked confused. “You mean Padraìd Owain: the druid?”  

“Aye.”

“Well, he’s probably in bed at this hour. I’m not sure if- ”

“We’d like to speak with him right away if that’s convenient,” Anders insisted, in a tone suggesting that, convenient or not, the druid would have to leave the comfort of his bed.

Understanding he was not being given a choice, the priest accepted to let Anders and John in, but he refused to allow the guards to cross the threshold. “Armed and armored men are not welcomed into the temple.”

John dismissed the guards. Ordering them to go back to the castle.

 

 

Only a few candlesticks shed some light on the round space of the temple’s interior. But the sight wasn’t the most solicited sense here.  A fragrance immediately ravished Anders’ nose when he walked in: the perfect balance between spicy and musky: erotic and wild. The scent alone made him stop and sniff the air, the same way one would stop in their tracks in a garden to listen to a foreign birds’ call.

“It’s the balsam poplar,” the priest explained when he noticed Anders’ reaction.

It made sense. The balsam scent given from the poplar buds, the whitish underside of their leaves and leaf petiole was known to be the ultimate aphrodisiac. It was also a sacred tree and only the priests and druids were allowed to harvest their branches and budding leaves to turn them into incense, perfumes, and tinctures.

The ancestors said the very first balsam poplars grew on the spots where the spirits made love at the beginning of the world and that the fragrance of those trees was also the reason why, during springtime, birds and other animals felt such a strong need to mate.

The priests had displayed a great number of branches in vases, decorating each of the temple’s fifty-two altars. Anders suspected the incense burning in brass bowls everywhere was of the same essence. And yet, while heady, the scent wasn’t too much. Instead, it wrapped around Anders’ senses like the legs of a lover. _“It really does smell like having sex in the wild,”_ was his first thought.

John, on the other hand, seemed more affected by the fact he had stepped in a sacred space than by the smell of it. He was looking around the temple, lost as if he didn’t know which spirit here would still be willing to listen to his prayers. “It’s the first time I set foot in a temple since I left Brastàl”.  The comment reflected the constant battle within him: between hope and despair; faith and resignation.

The young priest guided them out of one of the temple’s four doors. It led to a long, rectangular courtyard: a garden alley between two long buildings where the priests and priestesses lived. At the end of the alley, a half-circle shaped building completed the complex. There, they entered and took a flight of stairs to the second floor.

They weren’t allowed into Padraìd Owain’s apartments right away, since the druid had to be roused from his sleep first. The young priest unlocked the door of a sitting room and left the couple there to wait.

Embers were still burning in the hearth, meaning that the sitting room had recently been used, although some of the furniture was covered in linen sheets to protect them from the dust.

 

While Anders filled one of the lamps with oil from a bottle on the mantelpiece, John peered through the window, at the sleeping city, and took his time to walk around the room and detail the eclectic collection of ritual objects kept there. A large number of vases, jars and colorful offering bowls occupied shelves on the walls, but his attention was drawn to a particular piece of furniture, one of the few which had been left uncovered.

John spent a considerable amount of time looking at it, and when Anders finished lighting the lamp, he joined him out of curiosity.

At first glance, it had all the appearances of a large, round, daybed, but upon further inspection, it appeared that some additional parts could be pulled out of the frame and assembled to make different kinds of head, hips, feet or backrests.  

The piece was a few centuries old: cracked and repaired in places, but the priests had taken good care of it, and if it was currently uncovered, it meant they had dusted and polished it recently.

“This is ritual furniture for the _Aonadh nan spioradan_. It’s not made for sleeping,” John hinted.

That much was obvious. The wooden frame and its numerous parts were decorated with carved figures, revealed by the light of the lamp Anders brought closer. The bas-relief represented couples having sex in different positions, some imaginative, others more conventional, all of them explicit and detailed enough to make heat come to Anders’ face.

John ran his finger on the line of one figure’s body. “I’ve seen ritual furniture before, but this one’s decoration is beautiful and quite explicit.”  

“Welcome to Aklànd,” Anders said. The capital city of the Johnsons’ land had a reputation for sexual freedom for a reason.

“It has some impressive ornamentation, is all I can say.”

Anders lowered the oil lamp some more to examine the artwork. “I don’t think it only has a decorative purpose. The way I see it, they are more like suggestions on how to use this piece of furniture.”

If he was flustered, it wasn’t out of prudish shock for being confronted with lewd images. Nobody could accuse Anders of being a prude. The trouble came from the conflict taking place somewhere between his heart and his groin. Soon, this could well be him:  on his back, legs sprawled, mouth opened in moaned begging, like the carved figure John had touched with his finger. He would be at the mercy of his husband’s hips and their relentless grinding. With a lump in his throat and a bulge under his kilt, he turned away from the daybed and came back to the fireplace.  For the following minutes, he pretended to be stirring the embers, but truly, out of the corner of his eye, he was keeping track of John’s movement in the room.

 

***

 

Padraìd Owain was a middle-aged man, with a short, pointy beard and serious grey eyes. Anders had seen him before at Aklànd castle. As per tradition, he was among the clan lord’s advisors. Despite that, he had the common facial features of someone Anders would instantly forget if he wasn’t in his direct field of sight.

The druid appeared intrigued to see the former Great Lord and his consort turn up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, but he invited them into his apartments and offered them some refreshment that they both declined. They sat in the armchairs pulled at their intention on the opposite side of the druid’s work desk.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, the druid joined his hands, rested them on top of his desk and addressed John. “What may I do for you, Sire?”

“I think you should ask my husband first,” John replied.

Anders rubbed his nose. This lack of support from his spouse made him regret the decision of even coming here. It was all Dawn’s and Olaf’s fault: them and their stupid plan…  

He cleared his throat. “My cousin Olaf is one of your oracles, as you’re probably painfully aware. He has informed me that you are still looking for a couple to take part in the upcoming ritual of _Aonadh nan Spioradan_. We’re here tonight because I believe my Lord and I fit all the requirements.” His voice faltered at the end of the sentence and he wished he hadn’t said it.

“I see,” Padraìd Owain said gravely. He looked at John, but the lord’s face wasn’t betraying his opinion on the matter. At least not yet. “It’s not easy to find a willing couple this year,” the druid confessed. “The war has cut the youth of Aklànd at the root, and many of the newlywed men died in the battles during the winter. The war has also induced a crisis of faith, I’m afraid. Fearing for their own lives, not many couples are willing to sacrifice two moons of pleasure in the name of the spirits. Those moons could be their last.”

Even though Padraìd Owain’s intent wasn’t to blame him directly, John lowered his gaze, staring at his fidgeting fingers in a clear show of repressed guilt. “Perhaps you should find a more suitable couple, Padraìd. I’m not sure how the people of Aklànd would react if they knew we’re the one ensuring the fertility on the land for the year to come. We’re both unpopular public figures these days. Besides, the spirits would probably rather be honored by someone who hasn’t taken part in the horrors of the war.”

“I understand your concern, Lord Mitchell,” the druid said. “But the spirits are more concerned by the state of the couple’s own relationship than by the opinion of the rest of the world.”

Anders and John didn’t dare look at each other. The state of their relationship wasn’t something to brag about either.

“And you must also know that here, in Aklànd, unlike in Brastàl or Linden, the couple remains anonymous,” the druid added. “Nobody but the community living here in the temple and the couple’s close family are informed.”

Unlike John, Anders had little scruples about abusing the spirits goodwill, as long as it kept him out of the Duncans’ and the Scarecrow’s reach.  “Suppose we choose to volunteer; what would we have to do?”

“You have to spend the week before the ritual here, at the temple, during which the laws the human realm can’t touch them.” Owain’s gray eyes gave them both a pointed look. He was no fool. He knew their true motivation, but was also willing to let them get away with it. “The intent of the retreat in the temple is to cleanse your soul and body of earthly influences, so you can be pure and close to the spirits when the moment of the ceremony will come. After the ritual, you’ll be sent to a secret location for another week, until your soul fully integrates back into our realm.”

“Cleansed from earthly influences?” Anders wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

“Yes. During your stay here, you’ll have to live in abstinence, sobriety, and prayers.”

“My three least favorite words,” Anders muttered under his breath.

John coughed in an attempt to muffle his husband’s comment.  “What about the ritual itself?” he asked as a diversion. “I know the main lines, but what does it entail, exactly?”

“You’d be enacting the divine unions between the spirits. The ceremony consists of a renewal of your wedding vows and then, their carnal consummation. You’ll experience the physical love that unites you both; through and for the spirits.”  

“And you get to entertain yourself with the show,” Anders whispered, but, this time, John didn’t have the time to save appearances.

“No! Of course not,” the druid said, straightening in his chair, slightly insulted. “Who do you think we are?” He stood and walked around the desk. “Obviously, the couple is left alone for the second part of the ritual! Nobody has the right to spy on so sacred an act!”

In hope to appease the druid, John intervened: “my husband did not mean to be insulting, Padraìd. He just ignores the nature of the rite.”

Padraìd Owain gave Anders a sharp glance. “Then, I think this would be a very formative experience for you, Sir Anders: an opportunity to cure your ignorance.”

Anders stood from his chair as well. “As a matter of fact, I tend to agree with you. Now, that you’ve explained it all if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to discuss it with John, before we can make a decision.”

To his credit, Owain wasn’t a rancorous man. With very few feathers ruffled, he bowed his head in respect and escorted the couple back to the sitting room.

 

***

 

A priest brought refreshments, barley cookies and crab-apple jelly for Anders and John, but neither of them touched the food or drinks, although they looked delicious. It wasn’t for fear of being poisoned. The importance of the matter at hand curbed their appetite.

John stood at the window, just as Anders had seen him so many times at the Gull’s Nest – his body language a tell-tale sign of his unwillingness to face both his husband and the subject.

Anders sat in a wooden chair by the fireplace and waited until he couldn’t bear the silence anymore. “I know this is not the solution you were waiting for,” he said, in hope to trigger a reaction.

“It isn’t,” John confirmed, still facing the window.

“This is not what either of us wants,” Anders began.  

While John did not contradict the statement, he turned around to study Anders’ expression, a flash of angst crossing his face.   

“But,” Anders went on, trying to stay rational, “if we go back to the castle, we’ll be arrested as soon as my brother and Dawn are done tying the knot, if the Scarecrow doesn’t find a way to assassinate us first, of course.”

“This means we have to give up on trying to liberate Brastàl, even though my mother and George are still imprisoned?” John hooked his forefinger into his necktie and loosened it as if he needed more room in his throat to accommodate his suddenly rising anger.

This anger, Anders suspected, was directed toward the situation more than toward him. “For now, I think we indeed have to take a step back,” he advised.

He wished John would be more concerned about their relationship, or rather the lack of it, instead of focusing on Brastàl, even though it was a rather selfish thought on Anders’ part. A part of him was still offended that John would find the idea of having sex with him so despicable he was wary of a plan that would save both their lives. _“Do you want me?”_ This is a hard thing to ask when you’re afraid the truth is not what you wish to hear.

After having given the time for his anger to quiet down, John moved closer to the fireplace and sat on a chair next to Anders. “Do you trust the druid, the priests and priestesses here?”

“I do,” Anders said. “They are not known to be swayed by political pressure, and Padraìd Owain was friends with your father. If he says he’ll keep us safe, I believe he will.”

“We don’t have many other options other than to put our faith in him, then. Do we?”

“No. Albeit not being an ideal solution, this ritual is the only choice we have.”

John sighed. “Then, let’s go and tell him we accept the honor.” He stood and extended his hand for his husband to help him up.

Without thinking, Anders took it.      

 

 

***

 

 

Anders and John had a hard time not tripping in the stairwell, despite the candlestick Padraìd Owain carried to light their way down.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re heading to the refectory,” John filled Anders in. “The druid has sent a priest to wake a potential _Cùra_ for each of us.”

“A potential what?” Anders had no clue what was going on. As soon as they had told Owain they agreed to take part in the ritual, the druid set the process in motion, and Anders was dragged along a ride he understood very little about. For the first time in his life, he wished he had paid more attention to his religion lessons… and also to his Old Gaelic lessons.  

“Cùras are priests or priestesses who accompany the chosen couple through the days leading up to the ritual,” John explained very briefly. He did not have more time to elaborate, because they were already entering the refectory.

Around one of the massive tables, six people: three priests and three priestesses, conversed in hush voices, mugs of tea in their hands. They all wore nightgowns or nightshirts. Various states of sleepiness showed on their face, but none of them seemed annoyed to have been pulled out of bed in the wee hours.

They stood from the benches and bowed to greet the three men entering. Then, they formed a line-up.

It gave Anders the wrong impression. “Now I have to choose one of them to be my Curri, is that it?” One of the priestesses was young, easy on the eyes, with nice curves. She would surely be his first choice.

“Cùra,” the druid corrected. “And no. They are the ones choosing you.”   

And indeed, Anders noticed he was the one being scrutinized. He shifted his weight onto the other foot, uncomfortable all of a sudden. As a nobleman, he was not used to being the one submitted to selection.

The priests and priestesses gathered in a circle and exchanged comments for what seemed to be an eternity before they reached some kind of consensus.

One of the priestesses, the attractive one Anders had spotted right away, headed straight to John. “I’m Isla,” she said and offered her arm to him without a word more.

Shyly, he accepted.

“John?” Anders called out, but before John could even acknowledge his husband had been calling his name, his Cùra was already escorting him out of the room.

Anders made a step to follow, but the druid stopped him in his tracks. “You will see your spouse at breakfast tomorrow morning.”  

Before Anders could pretend he wasn’t worried for John, one of the priests stepped toward him.

He was a tall man, towering over him from at least a head and a half worth of height. His thick, black hair was braided in one long plait and folded into a bun. He made an impressive figure and Anders’ first reflex was to take a step back when the priest approached him.   

“My name is Lyam,” he introduced himself, gruff and serious, “you may follow me.” His accent was strange: the vowels pronounced using the tongue instead of the palate. It roused Anders’ interest, despite the intimidating effect the priest had on him.

 

 

***

 

The building where the priests lived was far plainer than Anders expected. Along the interior balcony overlooking the garden: a long row of identical doors greeted them. Lyam pushed one and it opened to show a small, stark bedroom.

After seeing the ornamented and intricate ritual furniture in the sitting room earlier, this was quite the contrast.

The bedroom had very few luxuries: an old, worn oaken chest, an earthenware ewer, and a boarded stool for the only chair. Two raw wool mattresses piled on a wood frame made a bed. The room didn’t even have proper candles: only two rushlights. At least it had its own hearth and a cast iron fireback to help spread the heat.

“This is our room,” Lyam said, letting Anders step in first before he closed and locked the door behind them.

Anders let a nervous snigger escape him.  “Ours?” The priest had to be joking. This wasn’t even large enough for one person.

“Yes,” was the unimpressed answer Lyam gave, again with that odd accent Anders noted earlier. “We’re going to share it until the ceremony.” The priest pulled the top mattress off the bed, down to the floor, and took a set of blankets from the oak chest.

Nobody in their right mind would let a nobleman sleep on the floor, so Anders assumed the mattress still on the bed would be his and he sat down on it. Eyes narrowed, he watched Lyam arrange the sheets and covers on the spare mattress.

The priest had an angular face. It reminded Anders of Ty’s, but the man’s skin tone was definitely darker than his brother’s fair complexion. He had more of a natural tan, not unlike Gaïa’s, and eyes so black the pupils absorbed light without giving anything back. The touch of grey in his beard gave an inkling of his age: early to mid-forties. Tall and sturdy, he could break Anders in half if he wanted, but strangely enough, he also inspired trust.

“What are you, exactly?” Anders asked bluntly.

“A foreigner… just like you.”

The remark stung Anders to the quick.  “I’m not! I’m born here. I’m an Aklander.”

“But people don’t see you as such, do they?”

“Not anymore, I guess,” Anders conceded after a moment of reflection. “Where are you from, exactly?”

“I’m born the other side of the western border.”

“So you’re a mountain nomad…one of the herders?”

“I am.”

Anders had met some of the herders’ descendants before: great-grandsons of people who had come from the West and married in the North Hills. But it was the first time he spoke to someone who was born in the mountains. It would probably not be the last time though, since Duncan had recently decided to enroll and enslave the poor herders as a cheap military force.

Lyam was not one of them. He must have arrived in the North Hills as a teen or a young man decades ago to be a priest now. “What brought you here?”  

“My faith in the spirits,” Lyam answered, as laconically as before. He had no intention in engaging in chitchat.  

“Fascinating,” Anders dropped. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

“As you please.”  

Anders stood and held his arms out, waiting for Lyam to help him out of his clothes. The priest ignored him, and instead, he went to the fireplace to add a log in the embers.  “Sorry about the misunderstanding, but I’m not your manservant.”

With a frown, Anders let his arms fall at his sides.

“I’m your guide,” Lyam explained. “Your protector, your spiritual counselor and chaperone.”

“Chaperone? So your purpose is to keep an eye on me so I won’t try to bed my husband before the ceremony?”

“Amongst other things. In any case, I’m sure you can manage to get out of your clothes on your own.”

“Rude,” Anders mumbled to himself.

While Anders was taking his coat and waistcoat off, Lyam settled in the bed, leaving the mattress on the floor to his guest.

Keeping himself from whining against the unfairness of the situation, Anders resigned himself to lay down to sleep on the floor mattress. The door was locked and the priest had the key – he was stuck there.

Still affected by the concussion he got from wrestling with the assassin only a day ago, his head swam. Eventually, he fell asleep, hoping John was better treated by his own Cùra.

   

***

The druid had lied: Anders didn’t get to see John at breakfast the next day.

Lyam insisted Anders and he would go to the bathhouse first thing in the morning. By the time Anders and Lyam reached the refectory, most of the priestesses were already gone and John with them. While soaking naked in hot water for half an hour, surrounded by the fragrance of sage oil and bergamot mint had its virtues, Anders was hungry and somewhat frustrated to have missed his husband.

His face changed from sulky to surprised when a priestess brought him his meal on a tray. It wasn’t so much the bread, the milk or the porridge that elicited this reaction, but rather the branch of pine placed beside his spoon. A quick peek around indicated he was the only one with pine needles on his tray. This time, he could not blame it on the zeal of Aklànd castle’s staff. This present could only come from one person.

Suppressing a blush, he grabbed the branch and quickly hid it in a fold of his kilt. It was too late. Lyam glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, something slightly amused at the corner of his lips. He had the decency not to comment and to start eating in silence.

Reassured he wouldn’t be mocked, Anders did the same and attacked his porridge with the vigor of a starving man.

Later in the morning, Lyam brought his protégé to the temple. There, Anders had to pretend to pray for thirty agonizingly long minutes. Bored witless, his kneecaps hurting despite the prayer cushion, he was looking for a way to escape.

Moreover, he was antsy with the knowledge John was the one who had been gifting him pine branches since the beginning. The presents kept coming since about as soon as John arrived in Aklànd. How did Anders not figure it out any sooner? Perhaps because he hadn’t been expecting to get courting gifts from a man who clearly hated his guts a moon ago.  And the gifting of symbolic tree branches was an Aklànd custom. It was not a Bràstaler’s way of wooing someone.

Why was John wooing Anders at all, to start with? Was it a cruel kind of taunt? No. It definitely wasn’t John’s style. Was it a sort of bribe given in exchange for Anders’ forgiveness? Did it mean more than that? To know the truth, he would have to confront his husband.

Anders cracked his eyes open and peered at his Cùra. Lyam’s face was both relaxed and concentrated.

Slowly, Anders moved to stand from his kneeling position, but before he could make a run for it, a large hand closed around his forearm and held him back.

“Please,” Anders protested, “may I go? It’s been an hour we’re here. I’ve prayed my arse off, I swear! It is over, right?” He gestured to show the empty temple. “We’re the only ones left.”

“It’s been over for a long time now,” Lyam confirmed. “We usually don’t pray for more than ten minutes at a time.”

“Are you kidding me!? What are we still doing here, then?”

The priest let go of Anders’ arm, but the expression on his face was forbidding him to flee. “Because you’re not taking this seriously,” he said. “When I’ll sense that you’ve given it your best efforts, then I’ll let you go.”

“Fine,” Anders hissed. He kneeled down again and shut his eyes, determined to make his praying look convincing this time.

His thoughts went back to his husband. No doubt John would have aced this. But Anders never had his spouse’s trust in the powers of the spiritual world, nor did he have his talent for stillness and concentration…

In times of extreme duress, though, Anders had found in himself some sparkles of faith. It happened when an otherworldly intervention seemed to be the only answer. Against all odds, his desperate prayers had been heard. When John was sick, on the verge of dying in the Nomad camp, all through the night to sunrise, Anders had whispered an endless string of pleas. That night, each heaving of John’s chest, every one of them, had been a victory over death, and Anders had been begging for the next breath to come. From one breath to the next; trembling prayer after trembling prayer, John had survived till the morning.

The same had happened after the amputation surgery. Josie couldn’t tell when John would wake: if he even would. Once again, at a loss for anything else to hold on to, Anders had silently called for John’s tutelary spirit.  John had been losing a lot of blood during the procedure, but Anders figured that the little blood left in his body would be powerful enough to keep him alive. John wasn’t born under Väm for any reason: or so Anders wanted to believe. And at that time, believing was all he had.

Gratefulness demanded humility Anders Johnson seldom showed, and yet, he felt forever indebted to the spirits.

He couldn’t express how thankful he was that someone had heard his cry for help when he needed it the most. More than anything, he was grateful John was alive, breathing and warm.  Anders had never taken the time to truly thank the spirits for having let him keep his life companion. Because despite the fact their relationship was somewhat strained, having endured more hardship than it could possibly bear, John was still there. It was enough. Anders shouldn’t be asking for anything more, or for anything else. Perhaps this was the true reason why he couldn’t pray today. There was nothing else worth asking for.

When Anders opened his eyes, Lyam was gone and he was alone in the temple.

He noticed the wetness on his cheeks and reached to dry the tears with the sleeve of his shirt. Fortunately, nobody had seen him weep.

He wandered around the temple for a few minutes, long enough to collect himself. A small group of priestesses and some novices came to collect the offerings left on the altars the previous day. Then, they opened the door leading to the street to let the people from the city come in. Anders took it as his cue to leave. He didn’t wish the citizens of Aklànd to know he had taken refuge at the temple.

Where was Lyam? Wasn’t he supposed to be chaperoning him day and night? His whereabouts weren’t much of Anders’ concern, though. Fortunately, he ran into the man he truly sought as he left the temple and walked through the garden.

John’s hair was now long enough to be tied into a small ponytail, and he carried a laundry basket balanced on his head, just like his Cùra who was walking by his side. He nearly dropped the basket and all its content when he spotted Anders walking toward him with a purpose. He exchanged a few words with Isla, asking the priestess if she could walk ahead, which she did.

“Good morning, Anders,” John said, making the basket slide down to his hip, then managing to put it safely on the ground at his feet.

Isla had gone ahead, out of earshot, but not far enough to lose sight of John. She stopped by a Bay laurel topiary to wait for him.

Instead of replying to his lord’s greeting in the same fashion, Anders searched in his sporran and grabbed the pine branch found on his breakfast tray earlier. He brandished it in his husband’s face. “What exactly is this? Do you have any explanation?”

“It’s a pine branch,” John answered, playing dumb.  

“You’re the one who keeps gifting me those, are you?”

“Yes. That’s me,” John admitted with a slight frown. “Who did you think they were from?” The frown dissolved into a teasing expression. “Do you have a long list of other suitors?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Anders replied. “But that’s not the point! What’s next? You’re going to send a bard under my window to serenade me?”

“That’s an idea,” John said, pretending to be considering it seriously, although a teasing smirk was still playing on his lips. “Would it work?”

Almost against himself, Anders decided to play along. “That depends how dirty their song lyrics are.”

John’s smile brightened another notch. “Noted.”

Anders hadn’t even realized before that instant, but the sun was out today. And he only became conscious of it now that he saw its warmth play in the copper hue of John’s dark hair, on the olive tone of his cheeks and on the soft moisture of his mouth.

“You’re smiling,” Anders blurted out. It was such a rare sight. It was almost unsettling.

“It’s your fault,” John said, bright teeth now on display.  

“What’s going on with you? Last night you were all doom and gloom and now this? Have you taken something? I told you to be cautious with Olaf’s presents.”  

“It doesn’t have anything to do with Olaf,” John reassured him. “It’s just me thinking that I seduced you once… And maybe, it means I can do it again.”

Anders narrowed his eyes. “Where is all that confidence from?” He wasn’t going to be coaxed that easily. “I find you very presumptuous. What makes you think I’m going to fall for you again?” He gestured in the general direction of John’s face. “What do you have to offer to compensate for those stupidly long eyelashes and those small nostrils?”  

“My… my nostrils?” Perplexed, John reached for his nose.

“Yeah! They’re ridiculously tiny: way too small for the size of your nose! Nobody ever told you that before?”

John squatted down to take his laundry basket, his shoulders shaking with laughter.“No. That’s entirely new information regarding my deeply flawed person.” He stood and, still sniggering, walked away.

“Hey,” Anders hailed him. “Where are you going?” As far as he was concerned, the conversation wasn’t over.

“I have a lot to do,” John replied from afar as he caught up on his Cùra who was already heading toward the washhouse. “I have to audition a couple bards to see which one has the dirtiest mind. If I have to find one that can match yours, it’s going to be a challenge.”

Anders stayed there, thinking, long after John was gone. They had flirted. Yes, that was flirting. It couldn’t be anything else. Anders was on known territory. Flirting had been his weapon of choice in the past, but he couldn’t help but wonder whether this was a sign they were rekindling their romance or if this was just another mask of friendliness to hide their issues.

 

***

 

 

Ty and Dawn’s last trial had taken place that morning, and Anders regretted he had missed it. At the temple, their trial was the talk of the day.

According to the latest reports, his brother and the future bride had succeeded in hunting down a stag, let loose in the glen with a hundred others. The only thing setting apart the animal they had to kill from the other deer was a single white ribbon tied to its antlers. From the accounts of their exploits, it only took them less than ten minutes to catch up on the stag and isolate it. While Ty was the one to first injure it, Dawn was the one who gave the fatal blow with her spear. From a young age, she had proven herself to be an agile rider, and now, the whole country recognized her as such.

The wedding plans could go forward and Anders didn’t doubt his brother was over the moon about it.

Giving the fact he would be staying at the temple for a little while, Anders had to put his affairs in order. Olaf had already taken care of telling Anders’ family that he was safe and staying at the temple until after the _Aonadh nan spioradan_. Anders still wrote a letter to Zeb, asking him to look after Tiolam. He also had a priest, dressed as a civilian, go and fetch John’s horse from the alehouse.

For a moment of madness that lasted a minute or two, he considered writing to Gaïa at the Gull’s Nest, to get some news of Moïra. He soon swiped the thought back under the carpet where it belonged. He would endanger the mother and the little girl by trying to get in contact with them. Moreover, Gaïa made clear she didn’t want to have anything to do with him, and he had promised he would leave them alone.     

The following day, he got a note from Aklànd castle..In the note, Tyrone hinted he was negotiating some sort of informal alliance with the Blackwood and the Douglas families.  He was trying to figure out how far their loyalty to Duncan was going.

Knowing Ty had love on his mind more than politics these days, Anders wasn’t expecting much of a result. Still, the matter was out of Anders’ hands for now, and he found it quite strange not to be in the epicenter of the political intrigue anymore.

Since his arrival at the temple, Anders had settled on the daily routine and frugal life surprisingly fast. He caught himself not even moaning in protest when Lyam brought him to the kitchens to prepare meals for the poor with the food from the offerings. Cutting asparagus and lettuce bored him, but on the upside, he was not constantly fighting to keep himself and his spouse alive.

He saw very little of John, however. Their respective chaperones kept them busy. When Anders wasn’t helping with one chore or the other, Lyam liked to bury him underneath a pile of books about symbolism, the origin of the world and ancient rites. Anders yawned a lot and learned little.

He couldn’t exactly say he had bonded with his Cùra on a deep level so far, but after a few days, he was able to see past Lyam’s rigid exterior. The tall priest could appear sanctimonious at times, but he was just a man who lived by high moral standards and had a true and fierce love for both the spiritual beings and the human race. He had no regard for Anders’ rank and treated him with just the same amount of respect he would have treated anybody else. Anders found it both refreshing and annoying at times.        

Came the day of the wedding. Dawn had chosen John for a witness and Ty picked his older brother. This way, John and Anders would at least be able to attend the part of the ceremony happening in the privacy of the temple, since they would not be at the wedding feast or at the public tournament held in the newlywed’s honor.

For the occasion, Anders traded the tunic and cloak he had been wearing with his kilt: the same worn by the novice priests, for an elegant, blue and black three-piece suit, brought from the castle by Olaf.

John too had opted for a more formal look, with a forest green velvet coat, enhanced with gold embroidery at the cuffs. It complimented the green highlight in his pupils and his eyes shimmered like tree leaves after the rain. For the first time in a long time, he looked regal again: not only from the way he was dressed but also from his posture. He stood tall, his shoulders straight. Without breaking the solemnity of the moment, he greeted his husband by bowing his head with a little smile. These days, Anders’ heart picked up speed at the slightest things. He thought about consulting a healer.

“Longing and regret,” Lyam whispered.

The comment snapped Anders out of his contemplation. “Beg your pardon?”

The Cùra attended the wedding as well and was waiting at Anders’ side for Ty and Dawn’s arrival.  “I’ve noticed that this is how you always look at your lord from afar: with longing and regret,” he remarked.  “I’m not one to pry, but-“

“That’s good to hear you’re not one to pry,” Anders cut him off. He had no wish to discuss his feelings, not now nor later, for that matter.    

“All I’m saying is, maybe, those things you seem to have been avoiding for a while, they are worth exploring before the day of the _Aonadh nan spioradan_. If you need to speak, I’m here for that purpose,” Lyam offered, though he wasn’t harboring much hope his protégé would suddenly decide to open up.

 

 

Loud cheering from the street announced the arrival of the bride and groom. All smile and rosy cheeks, Ty and Dawn entered the temple, leaving on the other side of the heavy door the crowd of citizens and clans people. The couple walked up to the fountain at the center of the temple, their hand already tied together with multiple green ribbons. John and Anders joined them near the fountain. It was rather odd to see Ty wearing the Keir’s tartan instead of the Johnsons’, but Anders would have to get used to it.

“You look amazing, Dawn,” he told the bride in all honesty. A crown of sea thrift flowers and buttercups adorned her hair. Her gown, of the same yellow color as the buttercups, truly enhanced her delicate skin.

“Thank you, your grace,” she said with a small curtsey.

Lyam slipped a ribbon into Anders’ hand and Isla gave one to John.

John was the first to tie his ribbon around the joined wrists of his brother-in-law and his bride. He couldn’t do it with one hand, and before Isla could offer her help, Anders had already come forward at his spouses’ rescue and assisted him. John cleared his throat, still struggling with the after-effects of the strangulation. “I’m wishing you both the same thing Tyrone wished me on my wedding day: for your love to be unconditional and overcome all obstacles. It is truly a blessing to have a spouse who is ready to face the unknown and to risk everything not to be separated from you.” He stepped back and his gaze met Anders’ for an instant.

Anders swallowed down. It took Ty saying his name for him to snap back to the present and realize it was his turn to offer his wish. He had not prepared anything: had not even thought about what he was going to say.

Anders looked down at the ribbon in his hands, at a loss for words.

Ty coughed, slightly impatient. He couldn’t wait to get married to the woman by his side. The exact opposite of how Anders had felt on his big day.

“Well,” Anders began, finally tying his ribbon to their wrists. “I wish you…” he trailed off. His eyes searched for his husband’s. John wasn’t smiling, but there was warmth and encouragement in the way he stared back. Anders focused again on his task. “What I should wish is for you to always find the will to try and understand each other, even in those circumstances where it would be easier to just give up,” he blurted out.

Ty, obviously, hadn’t been expecting his brother to show such maturity. He whispered his gratitude, but Anders wasn’t done:

“And, of course, I wish you never to get muscle cramps when you’re experimenting new positions, because those are a literal pain in the arse!”

“Thank you, Anders,” Ty repeated, louder this time, hoping it would be enough to silence his brother before the wish became even more inappropriate.

The druid invited the couple to come closer to the fountain and wash each other’s hands in a ritual cleansing, and then, the ceremony could begin.

Anders exhibited enough decorum throughout the exchange of the vows not to raise too many eyebrows.

When the time came for the signing of the contract, John passed the feather pen over to Anders and their fingers met briefly over the parchment. A wave of indistinct sensations coursed through Anders’ arm and settled in his mid-section. John froze as well. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but Isla came to take the parchment and John stayed quiet.

Later, after Ty and Dawn had sealed their union with fresh wedding tattoos on their wrists, they and their witnesses drank together. Since Anders and John wouldn’t be present at the feast, with the special permission of Padraìd Owain, they shared with the newlywed half a bottle of whiskey to celebrate. The rest of the bottle was offered to the spirits.

After an additional round of congratulations where Anders warned Dawn one more time about the sheer size of Ty’s “staff of love”, they sent them on their way back to the crowd outside and the castle. A night of festivity awaited the happy couple. Anders watched them go with envy: what was waiting for him was an early dinner in the refectory before evening prayers.

He was torn away from his jealous musing by a presence behind him. He turned around to find his husband standing there. “I’m aware your experience of our wedding ceremony was different than mine, but today brought back some fond memory for me,” John said.

Anders opened his mouth, not knowing what was going to come out of it.

John saved him the trouble. “It’s fine. You don’t have to reciprocate. I just thought I’d let you know.” He took Anders’ hand, and, as he bowed down, pressed a kiss to the back of it.

Once John had left, Anders unfolded his fingers to discover a piece of paper inside his fist. John had slipped it there during the kiss.

In clumsy, left-handed writing, the note said: _“Meet me in the garden tomorrow at midnight. Come alone.”_

Anders crushed the note into a ball and threw it into one of the bowls where incense burnt.

Tomorrow was the eve of _Aonadh nan spioradan_.

 

***

 

 

The following day, on three different occasions Anders tried to get John alone, to ask him what was so sensitive they had to discuss it in the middle of the night, hiding in the garden. All his attempts were thwarted, almost as if John was avoiding him on purpose.

He completely lost sight of him after the evening prayers. When Anders asked Lyam about it, the priest told him the priestesses usually gathered at this hour in the sitting room to answer the mail and copy prayer books and that John had most likely gone with them.

The whole thing bothered Anders: not knowing what John had in mind. Impulsive and unpredictable as he was, it could turn bad very quickly.

In order to spare wax for the poor, Lyam used fast-burning rushlights in his room, but that night, Anders pestered him for a real candle until he had to yield. No doubt the priest attributed that brattish behavior to some aristocratic sense of entitlement. In fact, in the absence of any other device, Anders planned on using the slow burning of the candle of keep track of time.

The most difficult, however, wouldn’t be to count the hours until midnight. It would be to sneak out of the room without waking Lyam. When he lay in his bed, the priest was so immobile and silent it was nearly impossible to tell whether he was asleep or awake.

Later, Lyam changed into his nightshirt and offered to kill the light. Anders protested. He argued that the flame helped him meditate before falling asleep. With a sigh, Lyam indulged him and went to bed.

Anders lay on his side on his own mattress. He reached for the candle and traced three marks with his fingernail in the wax. Only three hours left.

The candle took forever to shrink. Anders stared at the flame for so long he became convinced its light would brand a permanent mark at the bottom of his eye sockets.

Hot wax made a quiet, sizzling noise when the exposed part of the wicker reached the third fingernail mark.

Midnight.

Anders threw a look above his shoulder, at the bed across the small room.

Under the covers, the mountain shepherd turned priest looked like a mountain himself: solid and motionless.

The door was unlocked and only six small footsteps away. If only he could make it there without rousing his Curà…

Anders got rid of his bed covers and stood, grabbing his kilt while making sure to keep the rustling noise of fabric to a minimum.

Still no sign of movement on Lyam’s part.

Anders tiptoed to the door. The mosaic stone floor was freezing under his bare feet.

He touched the door handle. Slowly and carefully, he pulled. The door cracked opened. He was nearly there.

“You forgot your boots.”

“ _Shit_ ”

Lyam sat in his bed and ran a hand in his hair, messy from sleep. He asked, with more curiosity than disapproval: “where are you going like this: in a shirt and bare feet?”

With a growl of defeat, Anders dropped to the floor the kilt and belt he has been carrying in a bundle. “My husband is waiting for me in the garden,” he admitted. “He slipped me a note after my brother’s wedding, asking me to meet him there.”

Lyam slipped out of bed, picked the bundled clothes up from the floor and put them back in Anders’ hands. “Don’t make him wait, then.”

At first, Anders didn’t dare move. Was this some sort of test? “What? I’m allowed to go?”

The priest was already looking for his own tunic, kilt, and shoes. “Of course. You’re not a prisoner here.”

 _“You’re not a prisoner here…”_ Anders had heard it once, in Brastàl,  said by somebody else.

“I’ll go with you,” Lyam added, “but I promise to keep my distance.”

A few minutes later, they were outside on the balcony, both properly dressed this time.

A thick layer of clouds announced that the morning to come would be a grey one. No star or moon shed light on the garden. Lyam provided Anders with a portable holder for his candle and he stayed on the balcony as Anders went down the stairs.

When Anders emerged into the garden, wind threatened the flame, but he cupped his hand around it to protect it.   

John was waiting for him next to the topiaries, clad in darkness like in a wide cape.

“I tried to do as you asked, but I’m not technically alone,” Anders warned him. “My chaperone is on the balcony. I wasn’t able to sneak out unnoticed.”

“Me neither,” John confessed in turn. “Isla is watching us from the west wing.”

“We would have made terrible burglars,” Anders said.

John laughed softly. “Indeed.”

Both Anders and the flame shivered in the cold, night breeze. “Why did you want to see me?”

“Come” With a hand on the small of Anders’ back, John escorted him to a more sheltered corner under the arches of the west wing’s balcony. “I wanted to speak to you to make sure you didn’t have any afterthoughts… about tomorrow,” he confided.

“I would have to wait _after_ the deed is done to have _after_ thoughts,” Anders pointed out. He put the candle holder down on top of a nearby balustrade.    

“You know what I mean,” John insisted. “Are you sure you still want to go through with it?”

“With the ritual? May I remind you the goal is to avoid prison and a death sentence? Does it matter what I want?”

“It matters to me.”   

“Even if I didn’t want it, it’s too late to change our mind now.” Anders kicked a stone with the side of his boot. It went flying between two banisters and into the garden bushes.

John stared at him, quiet. Some feeling akin to worry pulled his eyebrows together.

“Don’t torture yourself over it, John,” Anders said with a waving gesture of dismissal. “It’s just sex.” He was, in fact, the one torturing John. He knew the words his husband wanted to hear, but he was too careful to say them.  

John stepped closer. “You know sex never was “just sex” between us.” The steam coming from his mouth crossed the cold air and touched Anders’ forehead when the blond man turned his head to look toward the garden.

“Maybe,” Anders replied, still looking in the other direction, “but I’m trying not to make a big deal out of it.” Emotional detachment: the best way to keep his dignity intact.

John heaved a pained sigh. “You’re still hurting…” It wasn’t a question.  

“I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you yet,” Anders admitted, a lump forming in his throat.

“Perhaps, you don’t have to.”  

This time, Anders dared look at his spouse. “What do you mean?”

“We can call this a truce of sorts,” John explained. “We can put a hold on this feud between us, just long enough to perform the ritual.” He reached for Anders’ fingers and squeezed them, almost shyly. “Do you think you can do that? And then, when it’s over, you can go back to having doubts about me.”

Keeping love, sex and commitment as separate things: Anders should be able to do that easily, giving the kind of meaningless affairs he had had in the past, without feeling any guilt. But in truth, sex was the only thing he had any real experience with. Love and commitment were things he only discovered with John.

“What I’m saying is that you don’t have to be at peace with me,” John went on. They were standing quite close now, at a distance any passerby would interpret as intimate. “You don’t even have to like me. All you have to do is to want me.” His fingers found their way underneath Anders’ sleeve and stroke the skin over his wedding tattoo. “Do you? Want me?”

Anders took a sharp intake of air. “What about you?”

“It’s no struggle,” John said in a whisper. “From the very first second I Iaid my eyes on you as an adult, I’ve been wanting you like a man possessed.” For a second, he seemed to be on the verge of pulling Anders even closer, but instead, he let go of his wrist and walked a few steps away, shoulders hunched.  “I know it’s not easy for you to be attracted to me, now that I’m so-”, he moved the stump of his right arm for emphasis, “so diminished.”

“Why does everybody think I’m obsessed with that?” Anders groaned. “Your arm must be the seventh or eighth item on the list of my concerns right now. In other words: I don’t care!” He paced from the balustrade to the wall, and figured John deserved a good jab of honesty to the face. “What truly concerns me is what will happen the next time I stray off the path you traced for me in your mind! What will happen if, in some new circumstances, I don’t act like the paragon of virtue and chivalry you always wished for a consort? Will I have to endure your silence, your ire and your rejection again?”

The metaphorical jab failed to knock John out cold. He had been expecting the blow, and while he hadn’t tried to dodge it, the way his head dropped was a clue of his remorse. “You’re different from the husband I wanted, that’s true,” he mused.

Anders’ throat constricted at the admission. He still put on a brave face.

“But I’m certain now you’re the husband I need,” John completed. “We were strangers when we wed: I knew very little about you, but that’s no excuse. I was an idiot for projecting my ideals on you from the start. You weren’t born to follow my ambitions or fulfill the destiny of my clan. You’re your own person and if I can’t accept that and even love you for it, then I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.”

Some of the weight of their quarrel had lifted off Anders’ shoulders. “Thank you, for saying this,” he said in a breath. He felt lighter somewhat, though the moment was so charged with emotion he wished he could run to a place where he’d be able to lick his healing wounds in peace.

Most of the candle’s wax was gone already, but a gust of wind accelerate its agony and snuffed the flame.

John’s face disappeared into the dark.  

“I think this is our cue,” Anders said softly.  

“Our cue?” The question had an accent of hope.

“Our cue to go to bed... What did you think I meant?”

John remained evasive. ‘Nothing.”

“Good night, my lord,” Anders wished his husband, with a slight bow, even though John could not see it anyway.  “And I know it’s a lot to ask, but try not to fret about tomorrow.” Not waiting for an answer, he groped in the dark to find the balustrade. If he followed it, he would find the staircase at some point. It wasn’t far away.

 

He had just gotten to the first step and climbed it when a voice stopped him.  

“Anders, wait!”

He turned around.

Without a warning of any sort, he found himself with an armful of warm, lean body. The lips catching his own blindly and the nose pressed to his face were cool from the night chill.

His mind took a couple startled seconds to register the kiss.

When his whole being caught up on what was happening, his heart burst in his chest like a storm hitting the shore. His eyes shut of their own accord and his tongue sought to get more of that taste: springtime freshness, desire, sea salt, and balsam poplar. Anders felt scared and liberated in equal measure.    

Since he was standing on the first step and John still stood on the landing, their height difference was switched around, and Anders had to angle his face down to properly respond to the eagerness of John’s mouth. He buried his fingers in the wild curls, grabbing a fistful of them. He kissed back with a vengeance. It was long due and too soon at the same time. No part of him was capable of reasoning, though. Desperate lust swelled in his chest and flooded his whole body: a tidal wave nothing could stop. John’s fist clenched into Anders’ coat at his hip. This almost felt like sparring.  

They parted: panting, confused, still holding on to each other.

Anders could barely distinguish the outlines of John’s face, but his husband was so close he didn’t need eyes to see him.

Gentle all of a sudden, John traced the hairline at Anders’ temple with the tips of his fingers. “I wanted to do this. I had to take the chance, even though I was afraid you were going to slap me.”

“I still might,” Anders deadpanned.  

“Will you?”

“No. But, I have a condition.”

John’s fingers found his cheek and jawline. “Anything.”  

“Kiss me again.”

“Our Cùras are still wating for us.”

“Screw them.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal gratitude, as usual, goes for Katyushha, who sacrifices precious hours of sleep to spot my mistakes. She's a great inspiration and a great friend. 
> 
> Thanks to all of you who commented on the last chapter. It means a lot. I just didn't have time to reply to them all yet, because I'm a terrible person and terribly busy. I love you all.


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